Meth, Death, and Destruction
by InfamousSharo
Summary: After ex mafia enforcer Sonia Marinelli goes into witness protection and testifies against her former boss, she's relocated to the rural desert town of Sandy Shores where she tries to start her new life...and finds herself thrown into a gory territorial war between two psychotic men.
1. Prologue

**Greetings, fellow readers and writers of fanfiction!**

Welcome to my attempt at writing a story with some humor, and sidling away from the sci-fi/fantasy genres for a change. This story is (very)loosely inspired by a Netflix series called Lilyhammer(Steven Van Zandt is so freaking awesome) and some other crap that crawled into my head while playing V.

Anyway, some things I should warn you about:

1: Pantsing. No, I'm not talking about pulling some unsuspecting person's pants down. This kind of pantsing is when one writes a story without an outline. We're going for a ride, folks, but there isn't a road. There's just a general direction we're going to go. What happens on the way there is going to be a surprise for all of us. Now let's just hope I don't drive us off a cliff. ;)  
2: Updates. They shall be unpredictable.  
3: I write unnecessarily long Author's Notes. I know you probably couldn't tell...

Disclaimer: The only things I own are a few OCs. The rest belongs to Rockstar, those motherhumping geniuses who have the ability to make us love violent criminals and spend obscene amounts of time gaming instead of going out to enjoy the real world like normal people. Pshaw. Who wants to be normal? Who needs the real world? I'd much rather spend my free time rampaging across San Andreas. Who's with me!? *raises fist skyward*

Lastly, please don't starve the writer; reviews are my sustenance. Feed me, Seymore!

Enjoy.

* * *

**Prologue**

* * *

The tall security gate slid open with a noisy, metallic screech, a sound that might grate on most ears, but to Brice Murphy it was the sound of freedom. The sturdy, six-foot-three man inhaled deeply, breathing free air for the first time in fifteen years. It was dry and hot and dusty, and smelled faintly of the gasoline, exhaust fumes, and hot rubber wafting in off the busy freeway a few hundred yards from Bolingbroke Penitentiary. To a nose that had mostly known the reek of urine and sweat and misery for a decade and a half, those scents were like sweet perfume.

"We're not gonna hold this gate open all day," one of the two armed guards nearby spoke with a tone of impatience. "Beat your feet, Murphy, or we're gonna haul your ass back to your cell."

Brice turned to face them, reached down between his legs and grabbed a handful of himself. "You screws can suck my fuckin' dick." Smirking at the guards' frowning faces, he swung back and sauntered through the open gate, his paper sack of possessions swinging from his hand.

The gate shrieked shut as he headed into the visitors parking lot, spotting a familiar face. Rick Murphy leaned against his black Huntley S, smoking a cigarette and watching the orange-clad prisoners have their rec time in the yard. Rick, being one hell of a loyal brother and Brice's only living relative, had visited him often while he was incarcerated, and over the past fifteen years his young sibling had changed, though not in a way that had pleased Brice, a point he often brought up when they saw each other. He had stopped listening to alternative rock and sporting his geeky superhero t-shirts and distressed jeans, taking up rap music and wearing baggy clothes three times too big for him instead. He even talked different. Rick had been well-spoken and mannerly. Now his vocabulary consisted mostly of swears and ghetto slang.

Rick finally took note of him, a grin stretching his mouth. "Awwww, there he go! Big B outta the Big House! Motherfuckers best watch theyself now!" He tossed his cigarette, then grabbed the crotch of his sagging pants to keep them from sliding down around his knees as he went to greet his big brother with a 'bro hug'.

Brice pulled him back, his forty-year-old, bearded face serious. "You did what I asked?"

Rick looked confused for a moment. "Huh?...Oh, yeah, fo shiz, my nig. You know me!"

_Do I? I'm not sure anymore_, Brice thought.

"Called your boy's contact and took care of bidness. The deal's set up for Saturday."

"Good. That gives us time then. We need to get a van for the merchandise."

"We can use my ride, B," Rick suggested. "Don't sweat it."

Brice shook his head. "Ain't big enough for how much merchandise I intend to buy." He looked over at the Huntley S, the afternoon sun glaring off the chrome, spinner rims. "You never mentioned the Huntley durin' your visits. What happened to that old pickup you used to drive?"

"Can't be seen drivin' around in a fuckin' hoopty. Traded that shit in and got the Pimpmobile!"

"Aside from the rims, it looks like somethin' a white-collar soccer mom would drive."

Rick got an offended look. "Da fuck!? Stop hatin'! This class, B - _gangsta_ class!"

"You ain't a 'gangsta'. You're a thirty-five year old white guy who was born and raised in a tiny, redneck town, for Christ's sake. If you're gonna be a stereotype, at least be the right one. You should be sportin' a mullet, bad teeth, and a meth addiction. You have an identity crisis while I was locked up?"

"Peeps change, B. Now, let's bounce. Got some forties and a bag of green I bought off this hippie back at the crib. Time to celebrate The Headsman's return to the world!"

Brice hadn't been called that in what seemed like ages. It brought up memories of blood and murder, of his victims, enemies who had crossed him in some way or another or threatened his former operation. He'd made a habit of killing them and decapitating them, or killing them by decapitation, sometimes having their heads put on a spike outside his enemies' houses or gift-wrapping them and sending them to their respective gangs, to show what happened to anyone who would oppose or threaten him. Some members of a Mexican drug cartel he had aligned himself with had started calling him _El Verdugo -_\- Spanish for executioner - and it caught on with allies and rivals alike, eventually turning him into The Headsman. That was so long ago, though. The world moved on and so did people. His old alliances were dead, some figuratively and others literally. He had no friends other than the ones he'd made in prison, his old crew had moved on, as had his connections. As his brother had told him in the past, his hard-earned reputation was non-existant, his feared moniker no longer spoken or thought of. That would soon change.

"Woo!" Rick exclaimed as he swerved the Huntley out of the parking lot, zipping onto the freeway. "I'ma invite my boys to the crib and we gonna throw a wild-ass party! Forties and chronic and hos like you ain't ever seen!"

"No," said Brice, annoyed. "No parties. I got shit to do, Rick."

"Yeah, you all about the bidness and shit, and I ain't disrespectin' or nothin', but come on, B, you just got out. Bidness can wait. Time to get buck wild!"

"It can't wait," Brice growled with impatience. "Why do you think I had you gatherin' information and settin' up meetings a month before my release? _Preparation_, Rick. My territory got taken over by a fuckin' tweaker when I got thrown in the pen. Now I'm gonna take it back."

"A'ight, then. So gimmie the four-one-one on your plan, 'cause you ain't said shit to your motherfuckin' brother about it. Just 'do this' and 'do that'. Need details, B. How it gonna go?"

"First and foremost, we need to set up shop out here, get the lab up and runnin' again."

"Can't do shit without a cook."

"I'm gonna get one. I made some friends inside, Rick. One of them gave me the name of a good cook, makes product with above-average purity. Right now she's across the state border, cookin' for a cartel that pays her shit. In a few days I'm gonna go...'liberate' her."

"_Her_?"

Brice looked at him. "Is that a problem? You turn sexist too when you went 'gangsta'?"

"Nah, man. A'ight, so I get why you had me set up that deal with that gun supplier."

"She's only partly why. I intend to buy a shit-load of weapons - three hundred grand worth - to get my cook and arm my soldiers."

Rick frowned. "We ain't got no fuckin' soldiers, B. Ones from the old crew, they moved on. Fuckin' turncoats either gone gangsta in Los Santos or they down in Mexico with the cartels. Some tried to set up shop on they own, though they got killed before they could."

Brice smiled. "Like I said, I made friends inside. Some of them are gonna be released soon and they're gonna join up with us. One of them is a biker, a member of the Devil's Sons. His cousin's their leader, and he's assured me a partnership with him and their club. That's more soldiers. Once we have enough men, we're gonna take out that Philips fuck who, by some fuckin' miracle, has control over my county, despite his three-man operation and shit product."

"Ain't the manpower behind the operation that matters, bro, not for this dude. Back in the day, dudes did business with you 'cause they were scared of what you'd do if they didn't or they respected you for the way you did business. It's the same for him. And his enemies were dumbasses who didn't know enough to band together against him. His product ain't really that bad either, just average. The best you can get in the county right now. Keeps the customer base loyal to him."

"I intend to start a fuckin' war, Rick, one this prick will never see coming."

"Look, bro, all I'm sayin' is don't underestimate this dude. He's had control over this county almost as long as you been locked up."

"No, I'm the one who shouldn't be fuckin' underestimated. I'm gonna crush that fuck's business, then I'm gonna take his head off his shoulders. Maybe I'll turn his skull into a lamp or somethin'. What do you think, Rick?"

"Long as you don't fuck it in the mouth like you did to that cartel dude's head. That was fuckin' sick, B. Didn't think you'd go that far."

"In anything I do, little brother, I will go as far as it fuckin' takes."


	2. Chapter 1: Home Sweet HomeOr Not

**Chapter One: Home Sweet Home...Or Not**

* * *

_I never thought it would come to this_, Sonia Marinelli thought, staring through champagne-tinted sunglasses at the scenery gliding past on the side of the two lane road; a sprawling expanse of pale desert that rose with rugged hills and dunes, dotted with cacti, Joshua and palm trees, and piled formations of sun-bleached limestone. _I never thought I'd end up in this situation._

Along the road, here and there, were old gas stations, lonely truck stops, and shops that looked ready to crumble. It was a dull, sad sight compared to the golden, majestic beauty of the Venturas desert and its renowned city of worldly casinos, loud neon lights and energetic nightlife; a place she had lived all her life. She'd already forgotten the name of this desert. Sahara? Sierra? Senora? Whatever it was called, there was a small town somewhere out here that she would be calling home now.

Sonia pulled her gaze away from the mostly barren landscape and looked upon her driver. U.S. Marshal Brian Schmidt was a handsome, gray-eyed, tawny-haired man in his early forties, was married to his high school sweetheart with whom he'd spawned two rugrats, played on a minor league baseball team for fun, and really knew how to wear a suit; an utterly boring individual who had been her only company for the past four months, but at least he was fun to look at.

"What's this town called again?" she asked, having forgotten that, too.

"Sandy Shores."

"Sandy Shores," Sonia echoed, tasting the name. "Puts images of beaches and men strutting around in speedos in my head, and yet all I see is just a lot of damn desert."

Schmidt chuckled. "I didn't think you were the type to like speedos."

"On the right man, I can like anything, but don't try to change the subject, Brian. I've lived my entire life in Las Venturas. Now you feds have the nerve to stick me in another desert, and an ugly one at that. Why couldn't you guys ship me off to Hawaii?" She reached down into the foot well for her purse, unzipped a pocket, and brought out her pack of Redwoods. She stuck a cigarette between her lips and proceeded to light it. Schmidt reached over and took the cancer stick away as she was drawing on it, tossing it out his open window.

Sonia scowled at him. "You inconsiderate asshole."

"I'm inconsiderate, when _you're_ exposing me to your second-hand smoke?" he pointed out, then moved on. "Look, Sandy Shores may not be beaches and men in speedos, but it is an opportunity. You're getting a fresh start here, a second chance, and considering your past, I'd think that would be a good thing. Besides, your former mob associates have no ties here; they'll have never heard of this town before. It may be in a desert, but it's safe."

"What am I supposed to do here?"

The Marshal shrugged. "Work, get a hobby, make some friends, join a book club, or a recipe club, since you seem to be fond of cooking. You could even start one up if there isn't one. You can do whatever you want, Sonia, as long as you don't break WITSEC rules, or the law. Try to live a normal life for once."

She snorted. "Normal? If I wanted normal, I'd get married and have kids, like a certain Marshal I adore. Normal's _boring_."

"How would you know? You've never tried normal."

"I tried it when you guys hid me in San Fierro during the trial. I went stir crazy, I'm sure you remember."

"That was only for four months; it takes time to adjust to a stable lifestyle. Sandy Shores is permanent, or it can be if you give it a chance."

A heavy sigh dragged from her lips and she pulled another cigarette from her pack, sticking it in her mouth.

Schmidt sent her a peevish look. "I thought I just got through telling you-"

"Ease up. I ain't gonna light it, I'm just gonna suck on the filter. I need something."

"You should consider quitting. Those things are going to kill you."

"Ha! Wouldn't that be a laugh? Survived testifying at a mob boss' trial, only to get killed by a roll of tobacco. Please put that on my gravestone if the cigs kill me."

Schmidt shook his head. "Only you would find something like that funny."

They fell silent for some moments. Sonia eyed a coyote tearing into some roadkill on the road's shoulder as she sucked on the cigarette filter and wondered what this town was going to be like.

Schmidt looked at her and cleared his throat. "I never thanked you."

"For what?"

"Testifying. I realize no one thanked you, even though it put your life in danger - well, put it in _more_ danger. And I know it couldn't have been easy for you, facing Salvatore Lupo when you were on the witness stand. I saw the way he looked at you, like you stabbed him in the back. And when he made that outburst, that death threat, I saw the way you looked at him. I know you feel guilty, but you did the right thing, Sonia."

She scoffed. "I don't give a rat's roasted ass whether it was the right thing to do or not. I would've gotten pinned for trying to kill a fed if I didn't take the stand. I wasn't going to prison because he fucked up." The slight quiver in her voice belied her show of anger. "It was his fault, not mine. He didn't trust me, he never did. I don't feel guilty."

"No," said Schmidt with a soft tone. "It certainly doesn't sound like it."

Sonia gave him an annoyed look. "You're lucky I like you, otherwise I'd punch you in the nose."

He smiled. "Anyway, _thank you_."

"So...what prison did they put him in?" She had missed the sentencing phase of the trial, as she hadn't been able to find it in herself to attend and she hadn't been required to once she'd given her testimony. She'd had enough of Lupo's face. And his eyes...those wounded, hate-filled eyes that promised retribution.

"They shipped him out of state to Pendlebrook Pen. Coincidentally, he's sharing a cell-block with Carlo Rizzuto."

That made her laugh. _Shit-load of bad blood there_. "Coincidental?" Sonia asked. "Or _intentional_? It happened before my time, but you feds must know about that little falling out they had."

Schmidt nodded. "I've heard the story. Carlo, Lupo's favorite and most-trusted capo, got too big for his boots and decided he was entitled to knock them with Lupo's daughter without the man's blessing. I understand that's a big offense in the mafia world. And supposedly Lupo set him up, had some cop he had in his pocket plant some evidence, and Carlo got arrested for a murder he never committed. Life in prison without parole. I never quite understood why Lupo didn't just have him iced."

"He was soft when it came to Carlo, or so I heard. They were close back before all this happened, real good friends, but Lupo ain't soft anymore and I hear Carlo's been cursing his name since he got thrown in the pen. I bet you a thousand bucks, by the end of the week, one of them's gonna get the shiv." She made a harsh stabbing motion with her cigarette, grinning. "Right in the fucking neck."

"You could be a little less enthusiastic about it. It's not like if Lupo gets killed in prison the hit on you gets called off."

"No," she said with a nasty smile. "But he dies, and that's cause for celebration."

"You know, I don't think you mean that."

"Then you don't know me very well, Brian. And when the hell are we gonna get to this town?"

Schmidt nodded ahead. "We're coming up on it now."

Sonia peered through the windshield and, discouraged by the sight, her face crumpled. _This has gotta be a joke._

The town, situated along the shore of a sprawling lake, was a tiny mess of trailers, most weather-beaten, others just rusted, collapsed shells of long-abandoned metal. Cheerless houses had been thrown in, making for an even cruder mix, and there were a few sad shops, a convenience store, and a gas station that had seen better decades. As Schmidt pulled the Landstalker into town, Sonia saw a weathered blue sign on the side of the road that welcomed them to Sandy Shores.

"Welcome to Bumfuck, San Andreas," she remarked. "Where everybody's related." She looked at Brian, appalled. "You expect me to make a new life for myself in this rural nightmare?"

"I expect you to give it a chance. We set you up in a house with an Alamo Sea view - that's the lake there. The place is just up the road."

"And what a road it is. Look, Brian, it's _paved_. That must've set this town back a fortune."

Schmidt frowned, aggravated by her tart remarks. "WITSEC is voluntary, you know. You could always just drop out of the program and go home to Las Venturas. I'm sure you'll be welcomed back with open arms and not a hail of gunfire."

Sonia waved a dismissive hand at him. "Alright, Marshal Asshat. Just drive."

Schmidt pulled onto a road running along the lake dubbed the Alamo Sea. A piece down it, he eased the Landstalker to a stop in the dirt driveway of an aqua-hued house on stilt supports, though the stilts were mostly unseen by the crude walls of the garage that had been constructed underneath the home. The place was crammed between two double-wide trailers, looked so deteriorated that a gust of wind might bring it to the ground, and a section of fenced-in dirt was all the yard that was offered.

As Schmidt got out and retrieved Sonia's single item of luggage from the backseat, the woman opened the passenger door and sat there for a moment, staring at her new home as the hot, arid wind blasted her in the face. _Okay, Sonia, look on the bright side. At least it's a house and not a tiny trailer._

She grabbed her purse, stepped out of the Landstalker, and got her first glimpse of her new neighbors. A man in dirty, worn clothes and a dusty baseball cap and a woman in a short, stained sundress, who Sonia assumed was the man's wife(although in a town like this, she might have been his wife and his sister) stood at the chainlink fence that separated the house from their trailer, watching curiously. Then the man rose up the beer can in his hand in a gesture of greeting. "Howdy, neighbor!"

Putting on her most polite face, Sonia waved to them. "Hi."

The couple stepped through the fence gate and approached, plastering on friendly smiles. The man wiped a hand down the leg of his faded work jeans, then held it out to her. "I'm Bert Hitchins. This here's my wife Ernaline, but most folks call her Ernie."

_Bert and Ernie? Jesus God._ Sonia shook hands with the couple as Schmidt carried her suitcase up the stairs to the front door of the house. "Nice to meet you. I'm Sonia Chase." It always felt good to be able to at least introduce herself with her real first name. When it had come time to choose a new identity for herself, Schmidt had told her she was allowed to keep her first name or at least her initials and suggested she do so, as it would make transitioning into her new life a bit easier. Her name was an anchor, holding her sense of self steady so she didn't lose it in the sea of lies she would spend the rest of her life telling everyone she ever met. That, and it was easier to respond to the name she'd been called all her life.

"Well, Mrs. Chase-"

"It's Miss, and please, call me Sonia."

The man nodded. "Well, where'd ya just get in from, Sonia?"

_And now come the lies._ "Rutland, Vermont."

The man got a surprised look. "Well, slap me cross-eyed! Ya came a long damn way, didn't ya?"

Sonia smiled, amused by the surprised verbal expression."That's where I'm originally from. I've actually been traveling all over the country. I'm kind of a wanderer, I guess, can never really find a place to call home." She shrugged. "Thought I'd give this town a try."

"Maybe you'll find home here," Ernaline said. "It may be small, but it's a close community and don't lack for interestin' characters." She nudged her husband with an elbow. "Ain't that right, Bert?"

He leaned over and kissed her graying brown hair. "That's right, sugarplum. Ya need help gettin' yer stuff moved in? Happy to lend a hand, if ya do."

"No, that's okay" said Sonia. "I traveled light and the house came furnished, but thanks for the offer."

"Well, ah'right. We'll get outta yer hair then. Ya need anything or just wanna shoot the shit, come on over. Our place's never lackin' for beer and my Ernie makes a mean pot roast."

Sonia smiled. "Thanks, I might just do that. See you around." She waved to the couple as she started up the stairs, where Schmidt stood on the stoop, waiting for her.

"Like your new neighbors?" he asked.

Sonia shrugged. "They're okay. Friendly. Is this street called Sesame by any chance?"

Schmidt produced the house key from a pocket and gave her a smile. "No, but wouldn't it be a hoot if it was?"

Her only response was to grin.

The Marshal stuck the key in the lock and, after a brief struggle with it, got the door open. He stood aside to let Sonia go in first. "Home sweet home."

_Or not_, Sonia thought the moment she stepped inside. What struck her first was the ugly sight, then the musty, mildew smell. The garish, floral wallpaper was stained yellow and peeling, and the dirty white carpet was worn, torn and missing in places. There were also numerous water stains on the ceiling and cobwebs in the corners. It was a hovel, but at least it was a furnished hovel, and there was a small, bulky TV if she got bored. As Schmidt had also told her, the house indeed had a view of the Alamo Sea, as well as the craggy peaks of Mount Chiliad towering majestically on the other side of the big lake. Wide, clouded and scratched bay windows and a sliding glass door opened out to the sight and to a large balcony. There were some canvas chairs sitting out there where one might enjoy the scenery in fresh air and slight comfort.

"Two bedrooms and one bathroom," Schmidt informed.

"Wow," was all Sonia could think to say as she eyed a rusty-red stain on the wall near a window. It wouldn't have surprised her if someone had died here before.

"I know, I know," the Marshal said. "It's not the fancy penthouse you were living in in Las Venturas. It needs some work, but the foundation, electrical wiring, and plumbing are sound. Seeing as how you're getting some financial assistance from the government and you got that job we lined up for you here, fixing this place up shouldn't be a problem, and it shouldn't be expensive out here. Think of it like your new life, a clump of clay you can shape into whatever you want."

Sonia sighed. "Thanks for housing me in a clump of clay, Brian."

"Believe it or not, this place is in good condition compared to all the other properties that're up for sale in this town."

"Actually, I do believe that. Still..." She left the rest unsaid and pulled her pack of Redwoods from her purse. She lit up and drew deeply on the cigarette, catching Schmidt's look and giving back one of her own. "Don't start. This is my house, I'm gonna fucking smoke in it." She hadn't had a cigarette since she'd left the safehouse she'd been staying at in San Fierro during the four-month-long trial, and after five hours on the plane sitting between a woman with a squalling infant and a hairy, sweaty man with potent body odor and a penchant for small talk, the three hour car ride from Los Santos International, and seeing this town and this house, she really needed a shot of nicotine. "So, I got a house and a job. What about a car? How am I supposed to get around this dump?"

"You have legs, don't you? Most of everything you need's within walking distance. If you don't like to walk, then buy yourself a car. The government isn't going to hand you everything." Ignoring her glare, Brian lifted her suitcase from the stoop and brought it inside. "You'll find all your documentation and IDs in a folder in your suitcase. We opened an account with Fleeca under your new identity, so you don't have to bother doing that. There's five thousand in it to get you started here and the government will assist you with sixty thousand over the course of the year. A portion of it will be transferred to your account at the end of every month."

She puffed again, letting the smoke stay in her lungs for a moment before releasing it through her nasal cavity. "What about this job you keep mentioning? What is it exactly?"

"You saw that convenience store on our way to the house?"

_I don't like where this is headed._ "Yeah..."

"You're going to be working there as a cashier."

She scowled. "_What_?"

"It was either that or working as a motel maid a town over. Those were the only two jobs available in the area, and the cashier position is close to home and it pays more. You're welcome."

"Bite me."

He laughed and shook his head. "You start on Monday. I already spoke with the manager, so just show up bright and early at eight and he'll get you settled into your new job. If you don't like the job, you can always quit, but just remember, you'll have to find a new one soon or financial assistance from the government will be terminated." He checked his watch. "Well, I better get to the local Sheriff's station and let them know about the protected criminal now living in the area...and don't give me that look, Sonia. It's procedure."

"Come on, they don't have to know. Things are gonna be hard enough. I really don't need the local bacon breathing down my neck."

"They're not going to be breathing down your neck unless you give them a reason to. If they start harassing you, call me and I'll get them off your back. This is just as much for your protection as it is for everyone else's. The local authorities need to be prepared if Lupo's men or any of his allies somehow find you; they can offer assistance until the Marshals can get here and take over. Besides, having the law enforcement here know about you will also keep you out of trouble. _Hopefully_."

She puffed out a breath, stirring the fringe of dark hair hanging over her forehead. "Fine."

"Oh, also, you're required to check in with me once a year. So, get yourself a phone. I don't think I'm forgetting anything, so...I guess this is it. Don't hesitate to call if you need anything or just want to talk. Any time, Sonia."

"Sure. Thanks." She knuckled his arm, lightly. "It's been fun, Brian."

The Marshal laughed. "That's one word for it." He put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed. "Good luck." He stepped through the door, paused on the stoop for a moment, then looked back at her. "_And stay out of trouble_."

Sonia grinned. "Not making any promises." _Knowing me, trouble is the first thing I'm going to get into, willingly or not._

The Marshal shook his head and started down the stairs. Sonia came out onto the stoop and waved as the Landstalker pulled out of the driveway. She stood there at the top of the stairs, watching until the black SUV disappeared from her sight. Then a cold, sick feeling hit her in the pit of her stomach. She was in a shitty town out in the middle of fucking no where, she had no friends(not that she'd really had any before, but at least she had known people), barely had any money when she had once been one of the richest people in Las Venturas(unofficially, at least), barely had anything, and her future was shrouded in uncertainty.

_What the fuck have I done?_


	3. Chapter 2: The Locals

**Chapter Two: The Locals**

* * *

_So this is my life now_, Sonia brooded, leaning against the checkout counter, chin in her hand as she watched a few junky cars and local rednecks moving about the street and sidewalk outside the convenience store. _From mafia enforcer living a rich life in Las Venturas to convenience store cashier living a dull __existence__ in a poor, shitty town. There's gotta be more out here; better opportunities, something. Anything but this._

It had only been two days since she'd arrived in town, and already things were not working out. There was nothing engaging to do, the people she'd met were dull and witless, and it seemed nothing exciting ever happened in this town. Since it was mid-summer, the days were unbearably hot and night brought little relief. Her air conditioning unit at home was busted, so it was impossible to get any sleep, even in the nude. Her other neighbors, two guys who were either brothers or lovers or both, aggravated the situation by blaring country music in the dead of night. Her boss, whom she had just met this morning, was an absolute toad who openly ogled her tits and called her 'Sonny' despite her insistence he not do so. That's what her old boss had affectionately called her, and she could've done without being reminded of him.

The throaty roar of a motorcycle engine brought her out of her thoughts. She straightened up from the counter as the owner of the aforementioned vehicle entered the store, the bell over the door jangling. The man was tall, dressed in a black biker vest with a white t-shirt under it. Both fit against him, accentuating a strong physique. She observed a flame-shaped patch on the breast of his vest, proclaiming him a member of the Devil's Sons. He also wore a tan nylon stocking over his face, mashing up his features, and he carried a pistol in his right hand.

Sonia smiled at him. _Well, it's about damn time something happened around here._

The robber cast a quick glance through the shop windows, then lurched in front of the checkout counter, pointing his gun at her face. "Gimmie all the money in the register, and don't even fuckin' think about trying anything, lady, or I'll decorate this place in your brains!"

Sonia kept her smile in place and didn't move. "Is this your first stick up?" She knew it was. He was wasting precious time with threats when none were needed, considering the gun he pointed at her was a threat in and of itself. Furthermore, no experienced thief would rob a place wearing women's nylons over their face; that had gone out of style decades ago and really didn't do much in obscuring one's identity. To top it all off, he was nervous. The hand that gripped the pistol was shaking, slight but noticeable.

Her question threw the man, or perhaps wounded his pride. "What? This ain't my first..." he started to defend, then caught himself and redirected to the robbery. "The money!" He waved the gun at her face. "Gimmie the fuckin' money! Now, bitch!"

Sonia caught movement out of her peripheral vision. The manager's office door was open, and the manager cowered there against the wall near the door jamb, out of the robber's sight. _He's a toad and a pussy. That's good to know._

She hit a key on the register and the till slid open. She took out the cash, a few bills at a time, putting them on the counter in front of the robber. He pocketed it as it came. Sonia could've laughed.

Instead, she spoke, "Here's a few pointers for you, _hotshot_. Next time, don't rob a place with a stocking over your head; I can still see enough of you for a general description - height, weight, build, hair color - and your clothes declare your affiliation with a motorcycle club. That's enough for the deputies to go on. Also, you might wanna demand the money be put in a bag to save time. You're lucky I've found this situation amusing enough not to hit the panic button. The deputies would be all over your ass by now."

Displeased, the robber pressed his gun to her forehead. "Think you're fuckin' smart, huh?"

"I would've been in and out in a minute," Sonia went on, her tone level as if they were having a casual conversation. "Probably less. You've got the money and you're still standing here, wasting time making pointless threats. What's it been, two, three minutes already? By now my manager's called the deputies and their station is just up the street from here. But you didn't take the manager into consideration when you decided to stick up the place, did you? Now, you could kill us, but that's just more time you don't have. Tick-tock, hotshot."

"Shit," the man said, looking back out the shop window as if expecting the deputies to already be waiting for him outside, despite the lack of sirens.

_He made that way too easy._ Sonia shook her head as she reached behind herself while the man was distracted and grabbed a bottle of whiskey off a shelf. She swung it across the counter just as the man turned back, the glass shattering over his stockinged head. The unexpected blow made the liquor-doused biker stumble back, where he collided with a shelf full of junk food and dropped to the floor. Sonia vaulted the counter, knocking off some displayed items. She pinned the man's arm down to the floor with a foot and bent over him, prying the gun from his hand as he groaned and cursed, his free hand pawing at the soaked stocking. No doubt the whiskey was burning his eyes.

Sonia aimed the pistol at him. "Be a good boy, Mr. Biker. It'd be a real fucking inconvenience to have to shoot you. I mean, have you ever tried to mop up blood? It's a pain in the ass." Then she called out to the manager, never taking her attention or the gun away from the biker. "Hey, Jerry! You call the deputies yet?"

"No..." came a soft, apprehensive reply from the office.

"Good. Get out here."

The manager stepped out. Despite the tables having turned over on the robber, Jerry kept his distance, staring with wide eyes at the man sprawled on the floor. "That's the third time in the last week these damn bikers have robbed me," he said.

"What're you waiting for, Jerry?" Sonia prompted.

He tore his gaze away from the biker. "What?"

"You want your money back, don't you? Take it off him. It's in his pockets."

Jerry hesitated. "But he-"

"Ain't gonna do anything with a fucking gun pointed at his head." Sonia nudged the biker hard in the ribs with her foot. "Right, hotshot?"

The man groaned in reply.

"Go on, Jerry."

The manager bent down beside the biker and proceeded to search his pockets. Once all the cash was collected, he stepped behind the counter and put it back into the register, eying the armed woman as he did so.

Sonia leaned over the Devil's Son and reached out to pull the wet stocking off his head. She smiled, delighted. Perhaps in his mid-twenties, he had a handsome, sharp-featured face, pale green eyes like clouded emeralds, unkempt black hair, a light growth of beard and a small scar that cut the outside corner of his left eye. "You're kinda hot for a biker. Anyway, I think it's time you got up and left. Also, I'm keeping your gun." She always felt better with a gun around, but of course it had been forbidden for her to bring any into her new life, and she doubted she could even purchase a BB gun without setting off any federal or civil law enforcement alarms.

She stood away from the biker, lowering the pistol to her side and holding her free hand out to help him up. "Let's go."

The biker gawped at her.

"Come on. If I was gonna do anything else, I would've done it already."

The man scowled and swiped her hand away, rising to his feet on his own.

"Well, there's no need to be rude," Sonia said. She put a hand on his shoulder and walked him to the door, holding it open for him with a foot. "Hey, don't feel too bad. You never get it right the first time; stick ups take practice, so consider this a learning experience. And a second chance; we ain't gonna call the deputies on you since we got the money back. Right, Jerry?"

"Uh...sure?" the manager replied with uncertainty.

"However, if you ever try to rob this place again..." Sonia tapped the pistol's muzzle against the biker's temple, smiling. "Bang." Then she put a hand on his back and shoved him through the open door. "Now, you have a nice day, sir!"

The biker stumbled onto the sidewalk, turned and stood there, staring, likely trying to grasp at what had just happened. Then he shouted, "Who the fuck you think you are!?"

Sonia shrugged. "No one."

She stood away from the door, letting it slide shut, and watched as the biker backed up a few paces, bumping into a pedestrian passing on the sidewalk, then he got on his motorcycle and vacated the scene.

When Sonia turned around, she found the manager gaping at her. "What? Close your mouth; you look silly."

"I thought you were gonna get shot!" Jerry exclaimed. "I mean, he's one of the Devil's Sons, and those guys don't fool around. He had a gun-"

"And now I have the gun, and you ain't gonna say anything to anyone about my having this gun, _are you_?"

It was an unspoken threat Jerry wasn't deaf to. He shook his head, swallowing. "No. You took care of him and got the money back, after all. I ain't gonna say anything, but...look, I don't think you get how it works with those bikers. If you fuck with one of them, you fuck with all of them."

"Then I guess I fucked with all of them. If they come looking for me, I'll just remind them that their brother put a gun to my head and walked away from it with a headache and wounded pride when it could've ended much worse for him," she said. "Anyway, you're also gonna _stop_ staring at my tits and calling me Sonny."

Jerry's face reddened. "Of course."

Since Sonia had the man where she wanted him now, she decided she may as well take an early day. "And since I just risked my life for your store while you were cowering in your office, I'd say I deserve to take the rest of the day off to, uh...recover from the experience, don't you?"

Jerry bobbed his head up and down. "I can take over the rest of your shift."

"Great." She grinned. "You and I are gonna be good co-workers, Jerry. See you tomorrow."

* * *

With the rest of the day free, Sonia used the time to do some grocery shopping, as she hadn't been able to get around to it on the weekend and she was already sick of eating the greasy shit at the local diner. She found a small food mart not far from the convenience store and spent the next hour pushing a cart with wobbly wheels among the cramped aisles, rubbing elbows with the hillbilly locals. Being new to such a small town, she stood out like a clown at a nudist colony, so a few of the locals just had to stop and gab. They shared uninteresting stories with her, such as the cute thing little Timmy did yesterday, the dead and mangled cat Rover brought into the trailer as a 'gift', the persistent rash on Randall's left butt cheek that was amusingly in the shape of Texas, and who was sleeping with whose wife. For people who were stereotypically distrustful and disdainful toward city folk, they sure were fucking chatty. However, Sonia couldn't deny that it was at least nice to be able to talk to _someone_, no matter how dull their conversational topics. It sure as hell beat the dead, lonely silence she would be going home to soon. Although she had never been able to form lasting close relationships, loneliness had just been one of those things she could never get used to. She had always been gregarious at heart, yearning for human contact in both a physical and emotional sense, but she was unable to connect with people on any deep emotional level, in any prolonged way. She supposed some people just weren't wired for it. The whole thing made her social and dating life annoyingly complicated.

After she paid for her groceries with her debit card and had them bagged sluggishly by an apathetic teenager, Sonia left the cool interior of the store and got socked in the face by the desert heat. _You'd think I'd be used to it by now_, she thought, cringing a bit as she stepped out into the street just as an open-roofed Canis Mesa swerved around a corner and hurtled down the road like greased lightning. Sonia backed with all haste toward the curb as the Mesa braked, tires screeching and kicking up dust off the road. The vehicle slid forward a few feet, inches from side-swiping the woman, then came to a halt.

"Yeah, thanks for trying to run me over, you inconsiderate asshole!" Sonia shouted at the driver.

Through the passenger window, she saw the man's face flush and twist up in anger, then he shoved his door open and stormed over to her. Sonia eyed him up and down. He was of average height, thin and crummy-looking, and going bald. A toothpick hung from the corner of his dry, chapped lips.

"What the fuck did you call me!?" he yelled, aiming that toothpick at her threateningly.

Sonia wondered why he bothered with it, considering he was losing teeth like he was losing hair. "An inconsiderate asshole," she answered. "Seeing as how I was the pedestrian with the right of way and you decided to disregard that simplistic driving rule - or maybe you thought I'd look great splattered all over your grille - you are, in fact, inconsiderate and an asshole."

The man's mouth opened and closed as he struggled for some kind of response. He looked so much like a fish, Sonia might have laughed.

Instead, she sighed at his silence and said, "You need me to speak more slowly and use smaller words?"

His face got redder, then he thrust himself into her personal space. "You got some fuckin' nerve, talkin' to me like that!" he shouted in her face. His breath was horrid, a nose-raping reek of rotten teeth and chewing tobacco. She almost gagged. "Now I ain't gonna just stand here and let some fuckin' cunt insult and sass me. You gonna learn your place!"

"You really should've taken better care of your oral hygiene," she remarked, unmoved by the threat.

The man growled and snatched at her wrist, making her drop her bags of groceries on the ground. His free hand went back, ready to 'put her in her place', but a harsh call from down the sidewalk halted the blow, not that Sonia had any intention of letting it land.

"Hey!"

A man marched up the sidewalk toward them, a tall fellow who was crummier-looking than the other guy in a stained bowling shirt, torn jeans, and scuffed up boots. He was a sight more hair-deprived as well and had a brutal, scarred face only a mother could love(and perhaps not even her). It was made all the more terrible by the peeved expression on it.

_Oh, dear God._ Sonia wasn't sure whether he was talking to her or the other guy, but she had a feeling things were about to get worse for one of them. This man had a homicidal look in his eyes.

Bowling Shirt thrust a finger at Mesa Driver. "What the fuck do you think you're doing?"

Mesa Driver's mouth opened and shut again as he scrambled for a response, his eyes glazing over with fear. He still gripped Sonia's wrist; perhaps he'd forgotten his hand was there. "Look, I don't want any trouble. She-she just jumped out in front of my car, then she called me an inconsiderate asshole."

Sonia rose a brow, but said nothing.

Bowling Shirt narrowed his eyes at Mesa Driver. "You think I didn't see what happened? I really abhor liars. They make me so fuckin'..." Through clenched teeth he released a growl that sounded more animal than human. "_Angry_."

Mesa Driver's eyes widened, and he finally dropped Sonia's wrist. "O-Okay, look, she didn't exactly jump out in front of my car, but she did call me an inconsiderate asshole."

"Yeah, I did," agreed Sonia. "And my reasoning for that still stands."

"Oh," said Bowling Shirt. "So, she _emasculated_ you with an insult?"

"No, I-" Mesa Driver started.

"You gotta abuse the fairer sex to feel like a man?" Bowling Shirt cut him off as he began circling around him like a predator preparing to pounce on its prey.

"That ain't-"

"Or do you just hate women?"

"I-I-" Mesa Driver struggled, his face paling.

"You-you," the tall man mocked him, his hands curling into fists as he came to stand in front of Mesa Driver again. "What!? _Which is it_?"

Mesa Driver blurted, "She can't just go 'round insultin' whoever she wants! She needs to learn to respect men!"

"Oh, I see," Bowling Shirt sighed, and the tension that rippled off him could almost be felt. "So you _are_ a misogynist." He took a solid step forward and grabbed Mesa Driver by the back of the neck before the man knew it was going to happen. Then he proceeded to slam the man's head down on the hood of the Mesa, over and over. "Argh! God, I fuckin' _hate_ misogynists!" Mesa Driver's head came down on the hood again, so hard the front of his skull shattered with a sickening crunch. The metal dribbled bright red with his blood.

After smashing the guy's limp head into the hood five more times in quick succession, Bowling Shirt released him. Mesa Driver slumped lifelessly to the ground. The tall man delivered a cruel kick to the corpse. "Come on, you pathetic turd! Let's see what kinda man you are! Get up and hit me!"

_Well,_ Sonia thought, staring down at the body, then at the blood on the hood, mixed with little grayish-pink bits of brain. _I went at least two days without getting myself involved in a homicide. That's a record for me._ She cleared her throat. "Uh, he ain't getting up. He's...you know, _dead_."

The man kicked the body again, then pointed a finger at it. "That'll teach you some fuckin' respect!"

Sonia wondered if he was even listening. She might have just walked away, but the man had gone out of his way to intervene. The least she could do was warn him, whether he was listening or not. It was the thought that counted. "It might be a good idea to leave the scene before the pigs shows up."

The man seemed to hear her that time, for his dark eyes turned upon her and gave her a decidedly predatory once-over. Then he stepped close, too close for Sonia's comfort, and circled her, getting a look at her from every angle. "Mm, nice. Real nice," he purred with a rather lewd smile. Then he bent over and gathered her bags off the ground, handing them to her. "There you go, sweetheart." His tone was rather friendly, despite the fact he'd just beat a man's brains out on a car hood in a fit of anger. In broad daylight.

_I've crossed paths with Captain Crazy. Great._ "Uh, thanks. I'll be going now."

Sonia started across the street. At once she felt the man following her and glanced back, offering what she hoped was a believable, reassuring smile. "I ain't gonna say anything to anyone about that little 'incident', just so you know."

"What, you think I _need_ your assurance?" he scoffed. "I know you're gonna keep your mouth shut."

Sonia didn't like the way he made those words sound; that was a threat if she'd ever heard one. "Well, you don't have to walk me home then."

"I'm all too happy to. No problemo."

_Take a hint, creep._ "Really, you don't have to."

"_Really_, I insist. Consider it a friendly service from the Trevor Philips Welcome Wagon!"

_How could he possibly know I'm new...oh, right. Small town. Guy probably knows everybody here, by face and name. Probably related to every last one of them, too._ "Are you sure you're just not trying to find out where I live?"

He shrugged. "It's a small town, sugar; I'll find out sooner or later. Besides, since I _rescued_ you from that misogynist pile of sick, I expect you to show a little gratitude, and nothing says gratitude like sucking me off."

Sonia couldn't help a laugh. _He must think I'm easily manipulated._ But she would play along for the time being. "For the record, I didn't ask for your help. I could've handled that guy on my own."

"Well, to me it looked like you needed assistance. But that's beside the point. I, being the _gentleman_ that I am, went out of my fuckin' way."

Sonia lifted up the hem of her blue halter top a bit, displaying the pistol tucked in her jeans. "And what does this look like to you? A water gun?"

The man eyed it and snorted. "Is that thing even loaded? More importantly, do you even know how to use it? I bet you don't."

"Would you like to find out first hand?"

That put a grin on his ugly mug. "Oooh, you're _threatening_ me! That's cute."

"And you're stalking me. That happens to be creepy."

"Stalking? No, no, buttercup, if this was stalking, you wouldn't see me."

_Well, he does make a good point._ "Stalking, following...still creepy."

The man frowned. "Is there something wrong with me wanting to get to know the new face in town? Is it a fuckin' crime now to be friendly?"

"That depends on your definition of friendly. You did make a sexual pass at me, a perfect stranger."

"Well, in my experience, perfect strangers are the best sexual partners."

"And most people don't usually tell perfect strangers about their preferred sexual partners."

He laughed and held his arms out. "Look at me. Do I look like most people?"

_He makes another good point_, she thought. _He doesn't even look like people._

"So, anyway, where'd you come from?"

"Vermont," Sonia answered.

The man rose a brow. "You came all that way just for some small town in the middle of a fuckin' desert? That is a steaming pile of bullshit."

_Okay, so maybe he's a tad more intelligent than I thought._ "I've been traveling around a lot, actually. Wandering. Looking for a place to call home."

"Left home for a place to call home?" He scowled. "Makes no fuckin' sense to me. You wouldn't be intentionally_ lying_ to me now, would you? 'Cause I'm sure you recall how I feel about liars."

She shrugged, unmoved by the hostility that ramped up his voice. "Home's the place you miss when you're gone, the place you can't wait to get back to. Vermont stopped feeling like that. So, here I am."

"Well, let's pretend like I actually believe you. There's plenty of towns out there, sugar. Why this one?"

_The guy's interrogating me. Really?_ "It's got a certain...'charm' about it."

In the distance came the sound of sirens, likely the deputies coming to investigate the corpse left on the street. Sonia spared the man a glance and noted the lack of concern on his face. So, for the sake of curiosity and driving the conversation elsewhere at the same time, she asked, "Why aren't you worried?"

"Eh?"

"You killed a man in broad daylight. You ain't concerned about the deputies coming for you?"

"Why should I? I got a killer reputation that spans the county; it keeps mouths shut. Now, I got another question for you. And do yourself a favor this time." He thrust a finger at her face. "Don't fuckin' lie to me."

"Knock yourself out." _Well, I kept him away as long as I could._

"You didn't so much as bat an eye when I cracked that turd's head open. Why? Kinda...mmm, _unusual_, if you ask me."

Sonia shrugged. "I've seen a lot of death and violence in my lifetime." _Mostly because I was the one who caused it._ "I'm not bothered by it anymore."

The man studied her for some moments(searching for a lie, Sonia knew), then asked, "What's your name?"

"Sonia Chase. And yours?"

He scowled. "I already told you."

"You did?"

"Yes, pay some fuckin' attention!"

Sonia rose a brow. _Jesus, somebody needs some serious anger management._ "Uh-"

He cut her off with an exasperated noise. "It's Trevor. Trevor Philips."

They finally arrived at her house. For some reason, it had felt like the longest walk of Sonia's life. She noticed the two guys from next door out in their yard, lounging in canvas chairs and drinking beer while a radio played country music at an unholy volume. Again. _Well, at least it's now and not the middle of the fucking night._

"Well, this is me," she announced, juggling her grocery bags to one arm. She held a hand out to the man. "It was, uh...interesting meeting you, Trevor." She didn't dare use 'nice' to describe the encounter, but she couldn't deny that it was at least interesting, in so far as the man was; he certainly wasn't like anyone else she'd met in town.

He took her hand, but did not shake it. His grip was strong, almost too strong, and his palm was rough and hot, his fingers long and callused with a profane word tattooed across the knuckles. "Likewise, sugar."

She smirked. "And thanks for 'intervening' earlier, even though I really didn't need it."

Trevor smiled. It was not pleasant, but Sonia wasn't surprised. She doubted anything he did with that face would ever come off as appealing. "You keep telling yourself that. Speaking of which, I guess I'm not getting that blow job?"

"Good guess, but hey, don't take it personal. I just ain't the kind of girl who goes around sucking any dick that walks into her life."

"I kill a man for you and this is the thanks I get? 'I just ain't that kind of girl'? Make a fuckin' exception!"

Sonia had to laugh. "Well, it's been fun playing along, but I'm calling you out. Despite what you think, I'm not an easily manipulated idiot. You killed that guy because, to quote you, you fucking hate misogynists. It had little or nothing to do with me...until you saw the opportunity to play me for a blow job."

He put on a wounded look. "Is that the kind of man you think I am? That hurts me."

Sonia grinned, amused by his poor attempt to guilt her. "I'm more inclined to think you're disappointed, maybe even frustrated, considering I saw through your scheme. But don't take it too hard. Well, I guess I'll see you around."

Trevor stared at her for some moments, an intense stare that made Sonia rather uncomfortable. Then he leaned into her personal space, which only succeeded at increasing her discomfort. "_Count on it_."

She stood there as the man took his leave of her, walking back up the street they'd just come down. No, not walking. Strutting, shoulders swinging and chin in the air, like he had all the confidence in the world, despite being ugly as sin and unpleasant as hell.

_What a weird guy._

* * *

Sonia tossed and turned in her bed that night, unable to sleep due to the Willie Nelson concert next door. She had been looking forward to a full night's rest, seeing as how it was a breezy night for a change and opening the bedroom window had made the hot, stuffy room more comfortable. But of course her thoughtless neighbors had to blast their annoying music again.

Sonia tossed and turned some more, then pulled a pillow over her head to drown out a chorus of Willie's singing and the two men's drunken laughter spilling in through the open window. It didn't help. She heaved a sigh and sat up in the bed, glancing over at the ticking clock sitting on the night stand. It read 2:23 AM. _This is ridiculous. Las Venturas wasn't even this loud, and I lived next to a fucking casino._

She had hoped the men's lack of consideration was a temporary thing, but three nights in a row of this shit? Nope. No more Miss Tolerant Neighbor.

Sonia got up, padded barefoot into the living room and opened the front door. The Red Headed Stranger sang _Blue Eyes Crying in the Rain_ as she swept across the stoop and descended the stairs. The two men were slouched in their camping chairs, numerous empty beer cans littered around their feet. They'd gone through two whole six packs and were halfway into a third.

"_Love is like a dyin' ember_," one of them sang along off-tune, slurring the words. "_And only memories remain. And through the ages I'll remember, blue eyes cryin' in the rain_. Oh, fuck, this song...I love this fuckin' song so much, Coy."

"I hear ya, Clint. Now shut your yap and leave the singin' to Willie. You're butcherin'..." The other guy trailed off and sat up in his chair as he took note of Sonia standing in the yard. He grinned and elbowed his brother. "Clint. Hey, Clint, look, it's that fine piece o' ass from next door. And fuck me runnin' if she ain't barely got clothes on!"

Sonia glanced down at herself and..._Ah, shit, I forgot my house robe_. She stood there in only a black t-shirt that reached just above her knees. She cast off the embarrassment and set the men with a stern look.

Clint sat up and saluted her with his beer can before she could say anything. "Well, howdy, perdy momma! Why don't ya come on over here and join us? Get that shirt off and dance for us; we'll get this party really started!"

Sonia ignored that. "Could you two please find the common decency to turn down that racket? Some of us are trying to sleep."

"Racket!?" Coy burst in offended objection; she may as well have insulted his mother. "The Red Headed Stranger ain't fuckin' racket! He's the soul o' country music!"

"I don't care if he's the God of country music. Turn it down; it's two in the fucking morning."

"I don't like that tone, missy," Coy said.

Clint put a hand on his arm. "Now, now, Coy. She's just on her rag, is all."

Sonia narrowed her eyes. "On my..." She took a deep breath. "Just turn the music down. Please." She turned away and started for her house. The moment she got to the stairs, one of the guys rose the volume up on the stereo as loud as it would go(and Sonia was surprised it could go any louder) and the two men began singing along to _On The Road Again_ at the top of their lungs.

Sonia's hand gripped the stairs' wooden railing, so hard her knuckles went white and her nails tore through the railing's age-old paint. A cold rage spread through her. _Okay, assholes. I tried to be civil about it..._

Sonia marched back into their yard. She looked around it, locating a rusted shovel laying in the desert weeds growing in the dirt yard. Sonia scooped it up and walked toward the men, who still yelled out lyrics, having a grand old time of it. Then Clint looked at her, eyed the shovel, and burst into drunken laughter. "Gonna do some gardenin', perdy momma?"

Sonia smiled and rose the shovel over a shoulder, then axed it down on the radio sitting on the small table between the canvas chairs. Willie Nelson was toast.

"Hey! What the fuck!?" wide-eyed Clint shouted, lurching from his chair. Coy tried the same thing, but being more drunk than his brother, he only succeeded in falling out of his seat. Sonia rose the shovel again as Coy crawled off through the yard to avoid getting hit. She bashed and bashed and bashed until there was nothing left of the radio but pieces of plastic and small bits of electronic parts, most of it scattered.

"My fuckin' radio!" Clint yelled. "You bitch!"

He lunged at her unsteadily, his hands out. Sonia ducked under his arm and slammed the shovel into the back of his knees. He went down on them with a yelp. Sonia put a bare foot on Clint's side and shoved him over on his back, pushing the pointed end of the spade up against his throat. "The next time I _nicely_ ask you to do something, you fucking do it." She pressed the spade down on his windpipe, forcing a gag out of Clint. "Capisce?"

"Okay," the man choked, his eyes bulging from their sockets.

"And it would be a healthy idea not get the deputies involved in our little neighbor dispute. There's a big desert out there, guys; plenty of places to bury your bodies and I'm more than capable of disposing of you." Sonia pulled the shovel away from Clint's throat and tossed it into the weeds. "Now you two have a nice, _quiet_ night."

Sonia turned and went back to her house as Coy stumbled to his brother and helped get him to his feet. She felt them staring, but the men didn't utter a word to her.

Sonia shut the front door, then went into her room and crawled back into bed. Smiling, she fell asleep to the distant sound of coyotes singing their night song.


	4. Chapter 3: Business

**Chapter Three: Business**

* * *

The sound of insistent banging coming from the front door wrenched the former enforcer from sleep. _Cops_, Sonia's groggy mind warned her; she had lived on the opposite side of the law for far too long to think that kind of assertive knocking could be anyone other than the authorities. And she had assaulted a man with a shovel and destroyed his property last night. Chances were he and his brother were the tattlers. _Those rat bastards are gonna pay for this when I post bail._

Sonia pulled herself up in bed, looking toward the clock through bleary eyes that slowly came into focus. It was a little past noon. She'd slept through the alarm and was five hours late for work.

_Well, if I don't get arrested, I could use another day off_, Sonia thought as she arose from the mattress, pulling on her silk, purple house robe.

She left the bedroom and crossed the living room as the banging went on and on, the door rattling on its hinges. "Alright already! Christ." She grabbed the knob and pulled the door open, but it was not the smug mug of one of Sandy Shores' deputies that she found herself looking at. Instead, it was the vicious visage of the man who'd come to her 'rescue' yesterday. She'd already forgotten his name. _Something with a T. Travis?_

The man was dirty from head to foot, covered in sand and dust and blood. Red also spattered his face, giving it an even more savage look. He didn't appear to be injured, aside from what were obviously self-inflicted 'meth sores' and the bruised track marks up his left arm, certainly nothing that would shed the amount of blood soaked into his shirt and jeans.

"You send another local misogynist to meet his maker?" she greeted.

He blinked at her, confused. "What?"

Sonia gestured at his clothes. "It's obviously not your blood."

"Oh, _that_." He waved it away as if it were nothing. "Just a minor incident involving a crowbar and a handful of hillbilly fucks who thought it was clever to accuse me of having an incestuous relationship with my mother - a baseless, _false_ accusation." He growled that last part at her in anger, as if she were the one to make that offensive charge.

"Okay..." She didn't know what else to say.

"So, anyway..." The man slid forward into the threshold, resting a blood-speckled forearm against the door jamb as he leaned further into her space. "I was thinking, I wanna get to know my new neighbor better. So you and I are gonna spend some quality time together."

Sonia was beginning to suspect his persistent invasion of her personal space was his idea of a cowing tactic. A waste of time. Since being driven into her current situation by her former boss' promise of retributive death, she refused to be intimidated by anyone else. "We are?"

That was not the response Trevor wanted, which he made evident by twisting his face up in disapproval and narrowing his dark eyes. "And why the fuck not, huh?"

Sonia considered the question. She didn't see any point coming in for work since she was already well past late and would only have a three hour shift left. That, and she hated shitwork, no matter how many would-be, handsome, leather-clad robbers it could throw at her. Even handsome robbers got boring after a while. Having yet to find anything even remotely entertaining to do in this town, Sonia supposed 'spending quality time together' might at least eat up some time. _Hell, who knows, it might even be fun._ "Yeah, okay," she finally answered. "Why the fuck not? I don't got any pressing obligations at the moment."

Displeasure easing from his countenance, the man clapped his hands together in an eager manner. "Fantastic. We got ourselves a date then."

Sonia assumed he was turning a phrase and didn't actually mean_ that_ kind of date. "Right. Well, I'm gonna go get dressed. It'll only take a-"

Trevor swiped a dismissive hand through the air. "You look fine to me. Let's vamos."

Sonia made a face. "In case you failed to notice, I'm wearing a house robe, and not much else."

His eyes slid down her body as if those words were an invite to do so, a corner of his mouth curving into a crooked, licentious smile. Yesterday Sonia hadn't really taken much notice of those eyes, other than that they were dark, but up close now she saw they were the deep brown of freshly tilled earth with an unusual, eerie luminosity in them. "Oh, I noticed," he said, voice lowered to a suggestive purr. "The less clothes, the better; they're only gonna get in the way."

"I'm not going out in public like this," she insisted for the last time and turned away from the door.

"_Fine_," Trevor called after her with a tone befitting a bitter child who has just been denied a treat. "Be fuckin' quick about it. Ain't got all day for you to primp and preen, _princess_."

Sonia made a face at the mocking 'term of endearment' as she headed off for the bedroom. "Right, because your schedule is obviously so full. Make yourself at home, I guess."

In the bedroom, Sonia closed the door and set about rummaging through her suitcase for something to wear. She hadn't gotten around to putting her clothes away yet, and it would probably be an age before she would; she tended to be forgetful sometimes. She didn't exactly have anywhere to put her clothes in any case, as the furniture that came with the house was sparse. There were closets, but she had an intense aversion for small, enclosed spaces. Once her first paycheck came in and the government paid her at the end of the month, she would finally be able to start getting some work done on the house, and those closets were going to be the first thing to go.

Sonia picked out a black bra, a plum-hued tank top and pair of jeans to wear. Once she was fully dressed, she ran a brush through her dark chestnut hair, then collected from her suitcase the only weapon she had been able to slip past the Marshals, the switchblade with the mother-of-pearl handle that her parents had presented to her on her twelfth birthday; an unusual gift for a preteen, but she'd had peculiar, unconventional parents. She also retrieved the gun she'd confiscated off the biker yesterday, tucking it into the front of her jeans. _Never know when I'm gonna need it._

Grabbing her pack of Redwoods and her lighter off the nightstand and shoving them into her hip pocket, Sonia headed out of the room. She found her guest lounging on the couch, dirty boots propped up on the once-clean coffee table, munching down one of her favorite energy bars while he scratched at his crotch. _Well, he's a barrel full of charm_, she thought, then noticed the mess of food wrappers scattered across the floor in front of the couch and frowned.

"Jesus God, man. I leave you alone for a few minutes and you've eaten all of my energy bars and made a mess of my living room floor."

Trevor shrugged a shoulder. "You _did_ tell me to make myself at home."

Sonia was not amused by that, if the look on her face was any indication.

The man crammed that last bite of energy bar into his mouth, tossed the wrapper on the floor with the rest, then pushed himself up from the couch, dusting crumbs off his shirt. Sonia wondered why he even bothered. "Let's fuckin' go already; I ain't gettin' any younger."

She rolled her eyes and headed for the front door. Outside on the stairs, she noticed an old, faded red Canis Bodhi parked in her driveway and cast a glance over a shoulder at the man. "That's your beater, I take it?"

Trevor got an offended look. "Oh, nice. Really presumptuous and judgmental of you to take one look at her and assume she's a piece of shit."

"It's just a car. It's not like I insulted your mother."

"Fair warning," he replied, his voice dipping to a hazardous growl. "You ever insult my mother, I'll rip your fuckin' heart out. Anyway, my Betty ain't 'just a car'. We've been through a lot of shit together; she's an old, reliable friend, so show her some fuckin' respect."

"Betty?"

"Yeah, Betty." He eyed the woman, critically. "You got something judgmental to say about that, too?"

She shrugged. "I just didn't take you for the type to name his transportation."

Trevor grunted. "There you go, making presumptions again."

Sonia shot him a scathing look. "Is this gonna be a thing now? I make one minor misjudgment about 'Betty' and you're gonna hold it over my head?"

"What a silly question! _Of course_ I am. It's my way of helping you correct your faults - I'm a considerate friend like that. I mean, face it, sweetheart, you're not exactly aging gracefully. When that face and body finally succumbs to the ravages of time, all you got going for you is your personality." He pushed past her down the stairs, heading for the truck. "And nobody likes a presumptuous, judgmental twat."

Sonia was unmoved by the insult, seeing as how he had little room to talk. "People in glass houses..." she muttered, following him down the stairs.

The passenger door gave a squeak as she pulled it open and climbed into the seat. The man slid in on the driver's side and turned the key in the ignition. The engine gave a clean, throaty roar of life, proving that ol' Betty the Bodhi wasn't a rust trap after all.

"So, what's the plan?" Sonia asked.

"Plan?"

"You're the one who suggested we...'spend quality time together'. I assumed you had a plan."

"A plan!" he scoffed. "Where's the fun in that? We're gonna wing it!"

Trevor put the truck in reverse and backed out of the driveway. Then they were shooting off up the road, bouncing over bumps and cracks and holes in the asphalt. Sonia reached for the safety belt...only to discover there wasn't one.

"So, uh..." she started for the sake of conversation. "What is it you do around here? Job-wise."

"Oh, what don't I do! You, my sweet, have the honor of being in the presence of TPI's prestigious founder."

"TPI?"

"Trevor Philips Industries. We specialize in meth cooking, arms trafficking, adult entertainment...aaaand some other shit, but I won't bore you with that. The important thing you need to know is meth and guns are the hot commodities in this county, and yours truly controls both markets."

_Trevor, Travis. I was close enough._ "Are you usually this frank about your illicit business endeavors? I mean, I could be an undercover cop or fed for all you know."

Trevor produced a nasty smile. She didn't think that face could look any worse until then. "Good thing for you you ain't. I can smell those turds from a mile away, and you don't smell like a turd. " He leaned over and, to her utter discomfort, _sniffed_ her. "In fact, you smell heavenly!"

Sonia scooted closer to the passenger door. "I'm gonna request that you never smell me again. It's kinda cre - Shit!" Sonia slapped her hands down on the dashboard, bracing herself as the truck came to a screeching halt to avoid a clunker of a Voodoo inching along a cross street, thick, smoky exhaust fumes trailing from its tail pipe.

"Get the fuck out of my way!" Trevor yelled at the driver, scowling. "Can't you see I'm on a fuckin' date here!"

_I wish he'd stop calling it that_, Sonia thought, starting to get a little concerned that he did indeed think it was a date.

Through the Voodoo's open passenger window, the terrified driver could be seen gaping in their direction. "I'm tryin', Mr. Philips! I'm tryin'!" the man assured.

Trevor growled like a rabid dog. "You ain't trying hard enough, you turd!" He yanked a pistol from the waist of his pants, pointing it out the open driver's side window at the Voodoo, and shot a few rounds at it. "Move, move, move!"

Sonia watched in mild amusement as the driver cried out in alarm, ducking down in his seat and putting the pedal to the metal. _Well, that's one way to clear a human obstacle._

Once the car moved off, the madman drove onward, holstering his gun in his pants as he pushed his truck to the reckless speed he preferred.

Sonia pulled her pack of Redwoods out of a pocket, body alerting her to the fact that she hadn't had her daily dose of nicotine yet. "Uh...do you mind if I...?"

The man shrugged. "Puff as you please. When you're done, you can puff on my boy. I mean, we _are_ dating now."

_Goddammit, I knew it._ Sonia stuck the stick of tobacco between her lips and lit the end. "No, we're not," she said, blowing the smoke out and offering a cigarette to him absent-mindedly.

Trevor waved it away. "Not really my thing. And yes, we, in fact, are. I made that perfectly clear when I said 'we got ourselves a date'. What did you think I fuckin' meant?"

"I thought it was a turn of phrase," she answered. "I thought you had the common sense to realize we just met, and therefore couldn't possibly have any reason to date."

"But there was chemistry when we met; sparks flew!"

"The only thing that flew was blood...from that man's head you brutally cracked open."

"A head I brutally cracked open just for _you_."

Sonia had nothing more to say on the matter; they'd already been over that once.

They drove around for a while, Trevor regaling her with tales of his criminal exploits. Had Sonia not been forbidden to speak of her former life, she could've told him quite a few of her own stories. That WITSEC rule was just another barrier between her and everyone else, but a necessary barrier that would keep her alive. Though she doubted this man had ties to any Las Venturas mob families, she still couldn't risk giving details that might lead the droves of gangsters that now wanted her dead to her location.

_This is pointless_, she realized. _Getting to know anyone in this town, trying to make friends. All I can do is feed them lies._ And Sonia hated it. She was a flawed human being, a great deal more flawed than most. She had prided herself on her only virtue, her honesty, but Lupo had taken it from her by distrusting her; he'd backed her into a corner and her only way out was to enter WITSEC and testify against him. Her former boss had sworn revenge in the courtroom, but he'd already gotten it. She'd lost a life she had worked hard to gain, and now she was losing her sense of self too.

_I'm just the ghost of the person I once was. Maybe I would've been better off in prison._

"Are you even listening to me!?"

Sonia blinked, not realizing she'd tuned the man out. "Huh?"

Trevor scowled. "I'm over here telling you about the greatest heist in American history, and you're over there staring off into fuckin' space!"

"Sorry, had something on my mind." Sonia gazed at him, curious. "You're talking about the Union Depository one, right? Happened a little over a year ago? I heard about that on the news. Anyone who doesn't live under a rock must have, considering it was all media outlets were talking about for weeks. I hear the authorities still have no leads on who the robbers are."

The man grinned. "You're looking at one of them, sweetheart."

Sonia stared at him for a long moment, studying that terrible face for a lie. She found nothing there but smug pride. Still, she found it difficult to believe he had any hand in that robbery. "Come on. _You_?"

"Are you implying I'm a fuckin' liar!?" Trevor steamed, looking all kinds of offended and angry.

"By the way the news described everything, that heist seemed to be taken with a subtle approach. From what I've seen so far, you're not exactly subtle."

"Yeah, well, that approach was my backstabbing, soft turd of a best friend's decision, not mine. Anyway, doesn't matter. We pulled off the biggest score of our careers _and_ made fuckin' history. You're dating a _legend_, my dear."

"Assuming you're telling the truth-"

"Go fuck yourself!" Trevor burst, gripping the steering wheel like he might rip it off the column at any moment and beat her to death with it. "I don't lie, least of all about myself and my greatest accomplishments!"

"As I was _trying_ to say," Sonia continued, unmoved by the outburst. "Assuming it is the truth, you made off with a shit-load of gold, which I'm a little confused about. I mean, you can do anything you want, go anywhere you want with that kind of lucre, but you choose to live out here in this shitty desert, running some meth and gun show. Why?"

""Cause it's always been a dream of mine; Trevor Philips, international drug dealer!" he answered. "And this 'shitty desert' suits me. It ain't fake like the city is." He threw a hand out at the desert. "It's all genuine, unrefined desolation and desperation and depravity, just like me. The air's cleaner, everybody's an asshole to your face, and there ain't a fake tit within fifty miles. What's not to love?"

Sonia laughed, prompting a look that was half disgust and half amusement from the man.

"Good Lord, that laugh! _Horrible_. Sounds like a strangled goose."

The insult didn't dissuade her amusement. "You know, I'm surprised you're up for grabs, Trevor. Any woman would be lucky to have a man as charming and sophisticated as you."

That made him grin. "Nice to know we can finally agree on something, cupcake."

Sonia shook her head. She couldn't tell if he was unable to read the sarcasm in her remark or if he was deliberately playing ignorant to be an ass. But in the next moment, Sonia caught sight of something in the passenger side mirror and it ceased to matter.

A team of six bikers rode up close behind them, and they weren't moving out of the lane to pass them by. The two bikers leading the band were close enough that she could see they were both holding a pistol in one hand, the other steering their Revenants. None of the men looked happy. She figured it was safe to assume these bikers weren't out for any joy ride, but were out on business. And she had a feeling that business involved one of them. "Trevor?"

"Yes, butterfly?"

_Well, at least he didn't refer to me as a pastry this time._ "There's a gang of armed bikers on us."

"Oh, I know. They're only gonna do something suicidal...like try to kill us." He sounded rather casual about it, as if being pursued by a gang of angry, armed bikers was an everyday occurrence for him. Sonia wouldn't have been surprised if it was.

"Oh, good," she said with a dry tone. "I mean, this can't really be considered a date if we haven't been shot at or killed anyone by the time it's over."

Trevor got a rather stirred look. "Never thought I'd see the day. I've finally met my soulmate!"

_It's official._ "You don't understand sarcasm very well, do you?"

"I understand it's the lowest, most _nauseating_ form of wit."

And with that, Trevor rounded the steering wheel to one side. The Bodhi swerved into oncoming traffic, the other drivers on the road veering off and braking to miss it, blaring their horns, shooting the finger and shouting insults through open windows. Having been given no warning of the abrupt change in direction, Sonia was thrown sideways into the man's lap before she could brace herself, which was far too close to his person than she would've preferred to be.

Trevor didn't miss a beat, "Since you're down there, sugar, you might as well suck me off."

"I really don't think you need that kind of distraction at the moment," she responded, pushing at his thigh to get herself upright in her seat.

"Distraction? Don't be ridiculous! Blow jobs are like meditation!"

The truck sped right through the desert, skirting around piles of sun-bleached boulders and plowing through cacti and Joshua trees, and an unfortunate coyote, prompting laughter from the maniac driver. A glance back and Sonia saw the band of bikers pursuing them. One of them riding in front aimed his pistol over his Revenant's handlebars and with a shout of "You ain't gettin' away from us, Philips!", he let loose a few bullets. Sonia ducked down in her seat as they rattled against the back of the Bodhi. _Well, at least I know which one of us they're after._

"Nobody, and I mean _nobody_, shoots up my Betty!" Trevor yelled. "You're gonna fuckin' pay for that, you prick!"

"Why are these bikers trying to kill you?" Sonia asked from her slumped down position.

"We're in competition, princess; their pathetic excuse for an MC runs an arms trafficking operation." And as an afterthought, he added, "And there _may_ have been a little incident involving me, a plane loaded with bombs and a not-so-secret storage facility where they keep most of their hardware...and there also _may_ have been a lot of bikers in it at the time."

"Is that all? I can't imagine why they'd want you dead for that."

He glared. "That's enough of the fuckin' sarcasm! Look, they're the ones who decided to run guns on my turf. They should've expected it."

"And what did you expect, Trevor? That they shrug off the bombing and go about their day?"

"If they had any brains, they would. Look, I got it handled. So just sit there and shut the fuck up!" he shouted as another round of gunfire was loosed from at least three of the bikers. Two bullets whizzed into the windshield, making web-like cracks in the glass, and the driver's side mirror burst into fragments.

"Stop and nobody's gonna get hurt!" one of the bikers riding along side the truck called out. "We just wanna have a little friendly chat!"

_Friendly chat, my ass._ Sonia yanked her pistol from the waist of her pants and leaned out the passenger window, aiming the gun at the biker. "Have a little friendly chat with a bullet, you hairy fucking ape!"

She squeezed the trigger and the biker's head jerked back, his throat erupting in a shower of red. The body tumbled from the Revenant and the motorcycle rolled on riderless for a brief moment before it lost control, spilling over and skidding through the sand. It wasn't long before another biker rode up to take his now-dead brother's place, shooting off a few rounds that clattered into the side of the truck and forced Sonia to seek cover low in her seat again. As the bullets kept coming, a second and third biker rode up along the left side. The one in front aimed his pistol at the rear tire and fired. The rubber popped and the Bodhi swerved violently, almost colliding with the biker still shooting up the right side.

"Goddamn fuckin' cunt!" Trevor raved as he fought to control his errant vehicle. The slippery sand and dirt and uneven terrain weren't helping.

The biker's pistol cracked a second time and another tire blew out. Still on a fitful course, the loss of more traction sent the truck into an uncontrollable spin and the back right side of it slammed against a stark-white boulder with an alarming, metallic crunch. Driver and passenger were jostled about in their seats, but were fortunate enough not to bang their heads.

Trevor didn't waste any time, yanking out the pistol he kept tucked in his pants and aiming it off through the driver's open window at the two bikers coming to a stop a few feet away. The first shot sent them scrambling from their Revenants for cover, the second took one man in the thigh, and as he stumbled and fell, a third bullet tore into the side of his head. "Having fun now, you cockjuggling bastards!?"

Sonia leaned against the passenger door and leveled her gun at the biker trying to flank the right side of the truck. Adrenaline rushed through her veins and she could feel the pulse of her heart in her ears as she eyed the pistol's sights and steadied her hand. The gun thundered and the biker's head recoiled, ejecting blood.

The other two bikers who'd already found cover behind a boulder came out long enough to get off a few rounds, most of the projectiles striking into the Bodhi. One thumped into the passenger headrest, forcing Sonia to duck low in her seat. "Fuck, that was close." Only then did she realize Trevor was gone, the driver's door left open in his wake. She felt a moment's worth of cold rage, thinking he'd fled and left her to fend off _his_ enemies by herself. _Some fucking gentleman he turned out to be. If I get out of this alive, I'm gonna find him and shove my pistol up his-_ Then she heard a taunting shout coming from behind the side of the truck.

"Come on, you pathetic twats! Take me out!"

The man rose up from where he was keeping cover the moment the wave of enemy projectiles ebbed, watching and waiting for one of the bikers to expose himself from behind the boulder.

Sonia used the brief moment of calm to get out of the truck, keeping low behind the side and her gun trained to the left among the sun-bleached boulders there, where one of the two leading bikers had fled for cover. The one Trevor had shot was laying not far away, dead in a pool of blood.

It was mostly quiet for a stretch, the only sounds the wind sweeping across the arid land and the low rumble of traffic coming in off the Senora Freeway a few miles away.

Sonia caught movement behind the boulder and fired, the emphatic crack carrying out across the desert. There was a small burst of blood as the biker keeled over from behind his hiding spot, flopping down in the sand, unmoving. She'd gotten him in the head.

A clamour coming from behind the boulder a few yards west of the truck followed the man's death; the two remaining bikers were arguing with each other.

"We had them outnumbered! Now it's just us! Fuck this, man! This was your stupid fuckin' idea and I ain't dyin' over it!"

"Well, how the hell was I supposed to know the prick was gonna have backup!?"

"You would've at least considered that he might have if you'd ever think shit through, you fuckin' moron! Can't believe I let you talk me into this!"

"I did think shit through! I kept tabs on this asshole for weeks and never once saw him with that bitch!"

"Well, apparently, you didn't keep good enough tabs!"

"Fuck you!"

"No, fuck _you_!"

Then there was a moment of silence, soon broken by Trevor's raucous laughter, as he now glimpsed the bikers. The two men had broken back from cover to flee the situation, trying as best they could to put distance between them and the threat. "Fuckin' cowards." Grinning, Trevor set after them. "Hey, come back! What about our friendly chat!?"

A shot sounded from behind him. One of the bikers cried out, his leg giving, and tumbled to the sand. His buddy cast a look over a shoulder, then spun around and ran backwards, aiming his pistol at the man and woman chasing him down. "Fuck off!" he shouted as he panned the gun left, then right, then left, unable to decide which target he should try to take down. Then he came to the realization that it didn't matter; if he killed one, the other would kill him. "Fuck!" He fired and fired and fired, panning the gun wildly in some last ditch effort to hold the pair off as he continued to flee backwards.

Sonia cut her course right to avoid the gunfire, darting across the dry terrain like a marathon runner headed for the finish line. A bullet grazed her arm, but in the heat of the moment, she hardly noticed.

Trevor merely stopped in his tracks and trained his pistol on the biker, a few projectiles striking into the sand a couple of feet ahead of him and flying errant around him. The pistol popped and the bullet flew true, striking the biker right through the forehead. The dead man's gun and the dead man's body fell to the sandy earth.

Sonia observed the one biker still left alive, the guy she'd shot in the leg. He crawled through the sand for his fallen pistol. She jogged over and brought a foot down on his hand before it could reach his weapon. She took note of the 'prospect' patch on the back of his leather vest, then glanced around. The other bodies laying prone had that same patch on their backs as well. She didn't know much about motorcycle gangs, but she knew prospects weren't full-fledged members. They would've never been sent on a mission to take down the boss of a rival organization. That must've been what those other two had been arguing about before; they'd gone behind the MC's back and took on this task by themselves, perhaps in an effort to impress and earn their way into the club, or perhaps the destruction of the warehouse and death of respected members left them blinded by a desire for vengeance.

The man on the ground turned his head as far as he could to look at her. "Come on," he begged. "Just let me go. This wasn't my idea!"

"It wasn't mine, either. I couldn't give a shit about your beef with Trevor," she said. "It had nothing to do with me, but you and your idiot biker buddies never considered that, did you? You shot at me, threatened my life, and that was your last mistake." She leveled her pistol at his temple.

The man's eyes grew wide. "Wai-"

The gun cracked once.

Circling the sky above the scene, a vulture responded with a grateful cackle.

* * *

Brice Murphy watched the woman as she inspected her new lab. Her name was Alice Regan, and she wasn't what he had expected. In her mid thirties, the woman had a head full of curly brown hair, hazel eyes behind silver, square-framed glasses, and a face full of freckles. When Brice had 'liberated' her from her former and now dead employers, she had come along with him willingly, accepting the situation with the finality of one who knows there is no other choice. The woman had an innocence and mousy desperation about her. He liked that; they were traits that would make her easy to control.

"What do you think?" he asked.

The woman looked over the lab glassware set up and ready to be used on the table in front of her. "Well, it's a bit cramped in here, but it's a discreet location. Properly ventilated, and this is good equipment." She lifted a twenty-two liter globular flask off a heating mantle, examining it. "A Bubbling 22. These things go for almost five grand on the street. One can produce a little over one hundred thousand doses of meth." She eased the flask back onto the mantle and waved a hand at the others sitting there." And you've got five."

"I was under the impression you could handle mass production," Brice said. "Considerin' you worked in a goddamn super lab."

"Well," Alice replied, her voice soft and timid. "I had help; a few assistants back at the old lab, but you...kind of shot them all in the head."

Brice sighed. "Then I'll find you new assistants."

Alice bit her lip. "That would require more lab space. I mean, as I said, it's a bit cramped in here with all this equipment. More people will only make it doubly cramped."

"You got two choices, Alice. You can cook on your own with a bit of elbow room or you can cook with your assistants rubbin' up against you. Either way, you _will_ be cookin' in this trailer."

"I imagine you'll want the product ready in a timely fashion, so I think it would be wise to go with option two. I don't mean to complain or anything, it's just that I'm new to working in a smaller environment. Your set up is actually really impressive."

Brice smiled and put a hand on her shoulder. "You seem to be confused, Alice. I ain't here to impress you. You're here to impress _me_. Understand?"

The woman swallowed and nodded, glancing away from his cold eyes.

"Good, then get to work on impressin' me. Small production for now - two pounds. I want it ready by tomorrow afternoon."

Alice fidgeted with the hem of her shirt, frowning. "Tomorrow afternoon?"

Brice narrowed his eyes, folding his large, tattooed arms over his larger chest. "Is that a problem?"

"Uh...no." She attempted a smile, but it was hardly there. "I _am_ supposed to impress you."

"Good girl. You have my number. Call me when it's ready."

The woman nodded, then turned away from him, reaching for the white chemical protection suit and full-face respirator waiting for her on a nearby table.

Brice opened the door to the trailer and stepped out into the fierce afternoon sun. He stood there for a moment, staring off at the pale desert that opened wide before him. Then he lifted his face to the sun, shutting his eyes against its searing brightness. The touch of heat and wind on his skin felt like a lover's caress. He loved this place, always had. It was almost a shame he'd had to turn that trailer into a meth lab. It sat alone out here, away from towns and the main roads. It would've been a nice place to live.

Geographically, it was the best place to cook meth. The surrounding hills further hid the trailer from view and being already barren land, there would be no adverse effects on the environment from the toxic fumes of production. A mass of plant life suddenly dying off would've risen quite a few eyebrows in this day and age of 'eco-consciousness'.

Brice headed off for the Huntley parked nearby, his brother Rick sitting on the hood, smoking a joint. Scowling, he stopped before him and reached out, snatching the half-smoked doobie from his brother's hand and throwing it to the ground where he proceeded to crush it under his shoe.

"Da fuck, B?" Rick complained, frowning. "That was good shit!"

Brice set his younger sibling with a stern look. "We're about to go propose an alliance with the Devil's Sons - a significant move for my business - and you're gettin' high? What the fuck happened to you? Fifteen years ago, you never would've fooled around like this before important business. You would've been suited up, head on your shoulders, ready to go."

"It's just weed, B. Chill. Ain't like I'm gettin' high off smack."

"Just weed," Brice snapped. He stabbed his brother in the forehead with a finger. "But it still fucks with this, don't it? We're goin' to walk unarmed into a room full of armed men, we're goin' to attempt to persuade these men and the rest of their gang to partner with us, and neither of us knows what to fuckin' expect." He grabbed Rick by the front of his shirt and jerked him forward. "You were always the calm one, Rick. You think fast on your feet and you've talked us out of a lot of bad situations in the past. So, if shit goes south, I need you to be in your right fuckin' mind."

"Okay, man," Rick said, staring at his brother's eyes. "I hear you. I ain't gonna smoke no more when we gotta take care of bidness. And I'm good, barely buzzed."

Brice released him and held his hand out. "Let's go. I'm drivin'."

Rick slipped off the hood and slapped the car keys in his brother's palm.

It was mostly a silent drive to Harmony, save for the rap music playing low in the background and Rick's effort to chant along with the lyrics. When the tiny town came into view, Brice wasn't surprised to see that everything was the same as it had been fifteen years ago; same size, same handful of businesses, same solitary traffic light. He and Rick had lived in Harmony for a few years after their shitty parents met their gruesome demise at Brice's hands. They'd both been young then, Brice on the cusp of adulthood and Rick only twelve. When Harmony lost its appeal, they moved on, never staying in one place for too long. Grapeseed, Paleto Bay, even down in Los Santos for a while; anywhere but Sandy Shores, where they were born and raised, where their parents were killed and they were too afraid to return for fear they would be arrested for their murders. They'd even spent a year living in the Chiliad wilderness, a time Brice still looked upon fondly. While his place had always been in the Senora Desert, he had appreciated the solitude of the mountains. Being away from everything had taught him and his brother a bit more about survival.

"Towns like this never change, do they?" he remarked on Harmony.

"It changed some," Rick said, slapping his hands on the dashboard to the beat of the music. "Remember the old Motor Hotel? Somebody grabbed that shit up, turned it into some apartments a year ago. Most of them bikers live there. Shit, I think _only_ bikers live there. Only people I ever saw when I was scopin' out their clubhouse for you a while back, them and their prostitutes. Their clubhouse's right next to those apartments."

"Chances are the bikers are the ones who bought the motel property," said Brice. "Probably as a front for their real businesses. And speakin' of that, we need to find a way to launder our illicit money when it starts comin' in."

Rick got a smug look. "I hear you. Been scopin' that out, too. The Colombian peso exchange scheme worked like a charm for us back in the day, but everybody's doin' that shit now, got the feds onto it. So, I was thinkin' we go old school, simple but sure - funnel our drug money into a cash-intensive business. Lot of businesses around here went south durin' the recession, so you got plenty of commercial property up for sale. The market's on an upswing and the Alamo Sea's gettin' popular as a tourist destination, so now's the time to buy. We scoop up one of those old gas stations or convenience stores for sale to start off, then when both businesses really get rollin', we scoop up another to funnel more money into."

Brice looked at him and smiled. "I owe you an apology, Rick. I thought you'd turned into a slacker, but you've been one step ahead."

"Only things that's changed 'bout me is my taste in style and music. I still got the brains for this business."

Brice nodded. "And the money launderin' part of it is yours, Rick. You've always been good with that shit."

"Just like the old days!"

"Not yet, but it will be. Soon."

"Unless you get caught with two pounds of glass again," Rick said, grinning.

Brice scowled at him. "You're fortunate we're blood, asshole."

The bar the Devil's Sons used as a clubhouse was right next to the motel-turned-apartments, as Rick had said. It was a small, pitiful place that had once been a gas station if Brice's memory served. According to the chipped, red paint on the wooden sign that hung down from the ledge of the roof, the establishment was called Pandemonium. The front door was painted black with a red P wreathed in orange flames in the center and the few windows the joint had were tinted dark, offering no glimpse of the interior. The parking lot was small and crowded with Revenants, the sun glaring off their chrome.

Brice pulled the Huntley into the lot and found a spot to squeeze into. The brothers exited the SUV, the thump of rock music sounding from the bar as they approached the door. When Brice opened it, he understood why the place was called Pandemonium.

The ruckus of music, chatter, drunken laughter, and the aggression from the three brawls taking place was deafening. The room was veiled in a thick haze of smoke and smelled of cigars, sweat, and leather. In one corner of the establishment, two bikers were in the midst of a game of billiards, a handful of spectators looking on. In that same corner, a man flipped knives at a dart board with a picture of the current United States president on it. Opposite them, a young blonde woman wearing only a g-string and a smile ground seductively on a pole set up on a platform surrounded by a group of hooting men. Across from the front door was the counter, crowded with bikers who were already drunk or well on their way there. A few had a scantily clad woman perched on their lap, a beer in one hand and a tit in the other. Equally clad serving women with full trays balanced on their palms squeezed through the cramped arrangement of tables and chairs in the center of the room, ignoring the numerous hands that groped at them.

Brice made his way for the counter, stopping only once when one of the brawlers let out a fierce roar and charged by him with a chair raised over his head. There was a loud crack and a sharp yelp as it smashed over the back of the man's opponent. A rumble of cheers went up.

"Shit, man," Rick said, his voice drowned under all the hellish noise.

Brice elbowed in at the counter, ignoring the gruff looks from the bikers. The bartender, a pot-bellied, bald and bearded man covered in tattoos, gave him a scrutinizing once-over. "I'm here to see Clyde Dougan," Brice said.

The bartender looked him over again, then nodded his head to a corner of the room. "Over there at the table."

Brice pulled back from the bar and walked over to the indicated table where five men dressed in black leather sat, playing cards. Eyes followed his every move, but he had never been one to get perturbed by anything, let alone something as trivial as staring. He stopped at the table and studied the men. The leather vests they wore had the Devil's Sons flame patch on the back and a smaller one on the front, and every last man was ranked. The one who wore the 'president' patch was a big guy, much like himself, covered in a myriad of tattoos, most of them motorcycle, club, or hell-related. His head was shaven and his jaw was covered in a thick growth of red beard that hung down just past his throat.

"Clyde Dougan, I presume?" Brice addressed him.

The man looked up from his cards. His eyes were ice blue and a jagged scar cut through his left cheek. "Who the fuck are you?"

"Brice Murphy."

"Brice Murphy," Clyde echoed with a frown. "And who the fuck is Brice Murphy?"

"A man with a mutual problem, and a solution."

Clyde slapped his cards down and sat back in his seat, pulling at his beard. "And what problem is that?"

"Trevor Philips."

The MC president's brows rose, but he said nothing for some moments, merely studied the man standing before the table. Then he pushed out a vacant chair toward Brice with a booted foot. "Have a seat, Murphy."

Brice took the chair, Rick coming to stand behind him. "From what I understand," Brice began. "Your MC is in the arms traffickin' and prostitution business. You own the latter in this county, but Philips controls the former. I'm sure you'd like that to change."

Clyde sat forward, arms resting on the table. His icy eyes bore into Brice. "You come saunterin' in here, accusin' my club of solicitin' women and runnin' guns? I don't know where you got that shit from. We're just a bunch of guys brought together by our fierce love for American motorcycles and the wide open road. Now, I think we're done here."

Brice grinned, as he had expected this. "I ain't a cop or fed, if that's what you're thinkin'."

"I ain't ever heard of you, ain't ever seen your face before. How the fuck do I know you ain't a cop or fed?"

"You don't, no more than I know you ain't a cop or fed. All we got is each other's word. You ain't ever seen my face before 'cause it's been behind bars for fifteen years. You ain't heard of me 'cause my reputation died out when I got thrown in Bolingbroke. That's where I met your cousin Jim; he was my cellie. Good man, but has a bad habit of gettin' himself into trouble. Made himself quite a few enemies inside, but also a friend who went out of his way to protect him. I told him about what I wanted to do with my life when I got released. He took an interest in it, said it might even rouse you since we have a similar goal and a common obstacle. He suggested I speak with you."

"Yeah? And what's your interest, Murphy?"

"Meth trade. Before I got locked up, I ran a big operation. This county's production, distribution...I owned it. Philips controls it now and I want it back, just like your MC wants to own the arms traffickin' trade. That's our similar goal and our common obstacle."

"So, what are you proposin'?"

"A partnership. This asshole has remained in business 'cause he was fortunate enough to have fools for enemies, fools who didn't have the common sense to join forces. His weakness is his lack of manpower; all it would've taken to bury him was a simultaneous attack on both sides of his operation. If we join forces, that's exactly what we're gonna do."

Clyde sat back in his chair again, pulling at his beard hairs as he considered the proposal. "Interestin'," he said at last. "I'll tell you what, Brice fuckin' Murphy, I'll have a little chat with Jim. You check out, we'll talk more."

"Fair enough." Brice turned a bit in his chair, holding his hand out to Rick. His brother handed over a pen and a scrap of paper, which Brice scrawled his cell number on and slid across the table to Clyde. Then he rose from the chair, holding his hand out to the man. "Call me when I check out. It's been a pleasure."

Clyde reached out and grasped his hand...then yanked Brice forward, rising a bit from his seat. The two men were almost nose to nose. "You don't check out, I'm gonna get real fuckin' suspicious 'bout who you are again. Then you and I are gonna have a big fuckin' problem."

Brice smiled. "I predict Jim will have nothin' but nice things to say about me. Maybe he'll regale you with the tale of how I saved his life. As I understand it, when one of your brothers owes a life debt to someone, it becomes the club's debt, too. He owes me, and so do you. That is if you truly are loyal men of your word."

Clyde's face split with a nasty grin and he laughed, a deep, booming sound. "You got some balls, Murphy, I'll give you that."

"All men do. Mine just happen to be obscenely large and made of steel." Brice looked around the table of bikers, nodding his head. "Gentleman." Then he took his leave of them, Rick trailing along after him.

Clyde eyed them as they left the establishment, then fished around in a vest pocket for a set of keys. He dropped them on the table before one of the patched members, a thirty-ish man built like a tank. "Take the truck. Keep an eye on Murphy. If he even takes a shit, I wanna know about it."


	5. Chapter 4: Making Moves

**Trigger warning. This chapter contains a rape scene after the third page break. If you wish to skip over it, the scene begins after this line: "Then let's go. Stay behind me and don't make any noise." and ends at this line: "A concerned citizen who just witnessed..."**

* * *

**Chapter Four: Making Moves**

* * *

Bolingbroke's visiting room was a dismal place, much like the rest of the prison. Its walls were thick cinder blocks that had at one time been white, but age and human contact had dulled them to a dirty gray. There were no windows, the only light coming from the fluorescent fixtures caged in their own metal prisons. They dangled high above the many tables, where inmates conversed with their grim-faced loved ones, their collective voices a spiritless murmur that hung in the small space. Six correctional officers stood guard throughout the room, their postures cocksure and so motionless they may as well have been chiseled from stone. Their faces reflected the gloomy atmosphere and their ever vigilant gazes watched for any misbehavior.

Clyde Dougan spotted his cousin at the back and headed over to his table. 'Slim' Jim Dougan was a middle-aged, heavy-set guy, who looked all the fatter in his orange jumpsuit. _Fuckin' pumpkin_, Clyde thought. Jim had kept his dome shaved while he was inside, displaying the curled devil horns tattooed on either side of his head, and he still sported his thick, salt-and-pepper beard as well.

As Clyde approached, Jim stood from his chair, looking his cousin over with a lop-sided grin. "Finally got a chance to wrench your dick outta all that pussy to come visit your family?"

Clyde laughed. "C'mere, you bastard." He pulled the man into a quick hug, as only that brief contact was allowed at the beginning and end of visits.

As the two men sat down across from each other at the table, Jim said, "Park came by couple days ago, told me what happened with the warehouse. How's the club holdin' up?"

"As well as can be expected. Your favorite prospect also met Destiny." They often spoke in code, as the COs tended to eavesdrop on the conversations that took place. Destiny was just Clyde's code for death.

Jim's brows rose. "What was he doin' at the warehouse?"

His cousin shook his head. "Not there. The Beige Brigade found him and five of our other prospects out in the desert with Destiny two days ago."

Jim sighed. "A shame. That kid had potential. Who introduced them to Miss Destiny?"

"The Beige ain't got any leads yet, but I got my own suspicions."

Jim frowned, having a good idea who Clyde was thinking of. The MC had its share of rivals when it came to arms trafficking, but there was only one who was a true threat to the club. "You-know-who? Havin' prospects meet with Destiny ain't gonna do damage to the club."

"No, and you-know-who knows that. Had he initiated it, it would've been for the sport of it, but he didn't initiate it this time." Clyde got a disgusted look, a hand coming up to yank on the end of his beard. "If those prospects hadn't already met Destiny, I would've introduced them to her myself. Idiots were supposed to be lookin' after our girls all that day. That one, the brunette with the kid..."

"Barbara?" Jim smiled from ear to ear. "Woo, boy, do I miss her. Good with her tongue, that woman."

Clyde ignored him. "She said some guy in a sedan came by their hangout, dropped off some 'tools' for the prospects. Prospects just up and left without a word, took the tools with them."

Jim got an astonished look. He looked around the room at the officers, then leaned forward a bit. "You tellin' me those green boys tried to introduce you-know-who to Destiny by themselves?"

"Guess they thought it would earn them their patch. Shows what kind of fools they really were. I wouldn't have given a damn if they'd succeeded. They went behind the club's back." Clyde snorted. "Maybe I should be thankin' that bastard; saved me the trouble of havin' to weed out the idiots."

Jim's expression turned severe. "Now, I ain't speakin' out of disrespect here, Clyde, but I know shit still ain't been done 'bout the warehouse and it's been a week already. We need to make a move, and soon before the other charters start thinkin' we're weak fools."

"We _are_ weak, Jim. We took a serious blow with the warehouse, so to speak. Lost just 'bout all of our tools and a lot of our workforce. We're havin' church tomorrow, to discuss what to do 'bout it. I'm gonna make a suggestion to bring in some outside help. Maybe your former roommate?"

Jim's jowly face lit up with a grin. "So, you talked to the guy."

"He came saunterin' into our clubhouse yesterday with his proposal, but people talk shit all the time, Slim. You were his roommate, so you must know a lot 'bout him."

Jim nodded. "Sure, and what I know 'bout him is he don't talk shit. That, and I'd trust the guy with my life. Saved my ass once. He's a real tough, mean bastard when he wants to be, and he's ambitious."

"He claimed he had a big business goin' before he checked into the iron bar hotel," Clyde mentioned.

"Yeah, said it supplied 'bout eighty-five percent of Blaine County's 'entertainment'. Had a big workforce and a lot of business partners, mostly south of the border, but they all turned their backs on him when he checked in. Had quite the reputation, too. He was known as 'The Headsman' back then."

Clyde looked mildly amused. "Should I even ask?"

"Nah..." Jim grinned. "Name says enough. Anyway, he's a man with a plan, and it's been in preparation for a while. Had his brother gatherin' information and gettin' some things set up on the outside."

"If he's got this big plan, why does he need us?"

"He's got the plan, but he ain't got the workforce. That's where we come in."

"Where we _came_ in," Clyde amended. "Like I said, we lost a lot of our workforce and our supply."

"Could always turn to the Las Venturas chapter," Jim suggested. "They still owe us for the help we provided them with when they had that problem with the Angels' LV crew."

Clyde considered this. "Maybe. I'll bring it up at church."

"Bring him to church. Let him explain his plan to the congregation himself."

Clyde frowned. "We ain't ever brought an outsider to church before. It's a sacred place."

Jim nodded in agreement. "We ain't ever needed outside help before, neither. Things are changin', cuz. We wanna keep our heads above water, we gotta float with the current."

* * *

Situated on the southeastern end of the Senora Desert along Route 68, the Yellow Jack Inn was a small, trashy establishment that served as the main watering hole for the residents of Sandy Shores, Grapeseed and Harmony. It also served as a pickup spot for local prostitutes looking for an easy buck and a frequent stop for truckers passing through.

That's the way Sonia's neighbor Bert Hitchins had described the place when she'd asked him where she might grab an alcoholic beverage. Seeing it for herself now, the man had defined the place well.

There were several eighteen-wheelers taking up a good deal of space in the parking lot and two ladies of pleasure stood outside the joint, tempting male patrons arriving or leaving with a combination of soft caresses against their own person, come-hither looks, and offers of a good time. Inside the establishment, it was crowded and loud; no surprise for a Friday night, even in a rural area. It was time for the working man to wind down from the work week with drunken revelry. A haze of cigarette smoke floated on the room, and the place held its sharp scent, as well as a staggering menagerie of other odors; the bitterness of alcohol, tang of cooking grease, and mustiness of sweat.

Sonia glanced around for a place to sit. The only vacant seat left was at a table situated in the corner of the nook across from the counter. She claimed it before anyone else could and shouted over the din of drunken laughter and chatter for vodka on the rocks with a lemon wedge, a cheerful lilt in her voice. She was in a good mood, having quit her dull, unfulfilling job at the convenience store that morning, much to Jerry's annoyance. Considering she had missed two days of work, he insisted she show up for her remaining two weeks, but Sonia informed him that wasn't happening. It cost her her only paycheck, but that didn't bother her half as much as having to face two more weeks slaving away at that counter. Working there the few days she had had left her feeling like she was slowly wasting away.

She had no idea what she was going to do for a job in the long run, but future work hardly mattered right now. It was time to celebrate her escape from her work prison. More over, she needed something to take the edge off her reality and booze was her go-to now. Back in the day, it had been heroin, an evil demon of a substance that one never truly recovers from. Even after quitting cold turkey, the need was ever present like waves upon a shore. The ebb and flow of it was mild most of the time, but sometimes there were devastating hurricanes that had that need crashing through her with storm surge strength. One of Sonia's hurricanes had come just days before Lupo's trial. Thankfully, good ol' Marshal Schmidt had been there to keep her anchored.

Settling back into her chair, Sonia focused on the revelry as she waited for her drink. The counter was swarming with barflies of the older male persuasion; forty-something and fifty-something average joes, most of them more drunk than sober and a few already passed out in their stools. Some were huddled and hovering at one end of the counter where a TV bolted to the wall projected a baseball game through a haze of static snow. The men erupted into raucous cheers and clinking beverage holders when one of the Los Santos Corkers hit a Grand Slam. In the nook, a few patrons seated at tables chattered away as they ate greasy cheeseburgers and gulped down bottles of beer. A man seated on the billiard table not far away groaned in pleasure as the bottle blonde prostitute kneeling between his legs fellated him, and at the table in front of Sonia, a couple argued about an illicit affair, the wife apparently having slept with the husband's brother.

"Hey! You in the back!"

Sonia looked toward the voice. It was the bartender, a woman whose middle age showed in the lines on her face and in the white that streaked her short, dark auburn hair.

"Your vodka!" she hollered over the noise. "You're gonna have to come get it! Can't trust these drunks not to raid my supply!"

Sonia got up from her table and approached the counter as one of the truckers there laughed and said, "All I wanna raid is what's in them panties, babydoll!" He proceeded to reach across the bar to grope the bartender. "Gets real lonely out there on the road."

The woman glared and slapped his hand away. "Tame yourself, or I'm gonna have to ask you to leave."

"Come on, now, sweetie pie, don't be cold." He tried to grope her again.

Sonia pulled in between him and a man passed out face-down on the counter. She laid a hand on the trucker's wrist and pulled it away from the frowning bartender. "That's enough, knock it off."

The trucker looked at her, grinning. Sonia saw he wore a black and white mesh cap that claimed he was a 'lean, mean, fucking machine'. "What'sa matter, honey? Feelin' left out?" The trucker grabbed her breast and squeezed. "Mm, mm! Those've gotta be real!"

_The fucking nerve_, Sonia thought, fuming, her eyes darting from his grinning face to his molesting hand. She snatched it at the wrist and snapped it back within a hair of its breaking point, eliciting a pained cry from the man. "Actually, I'm feeling great. How are _you_?"

"Fuck!" he shouted, squirming. "Let go!"

"Get him out of here!" the bartender shouted, thrusting a finger at the door. "I don't want that trash harassin' anymore of my customers!" She glared daggers at the trucker. "Consider yourself banned!"

Sonia gladly obliged the woman. Keeping the trucker in the wrist-lock, she grabbed a fistful of his shirt with her free hand and wrestled him back to the front door, propelling him through. He stumbled right into someone who had just gotten to the door. The other man caught him by the shoulders, then thrust him away with a glare. The trucker's legs tangled and he fell back on the concrete, his vulgar hat flopping off his head.

"Keep your disgusting hands to yourself next time," Sonia told the trucker.

The man struggled to his feet, glaring at her. "Bitch!" He took a few solid, threatening steps in her direction.

Sonia lifted up the hem of her shirt, displaying the pistol she now kept on her at all times. "Bad idea."

The trucker stopped short at the sight of the gun, his face twisting up. "You're bluffin'. Can't do shit with a witness here."

"Yet you stopped," Sonia pointed out. "You're obviously not sure if it's a bluff or not, but I'm game on finding out if you are."

The trucker seemed to decide it wasn't worth it, as he merely sneered, hawked a loogie and spat it on the ground in front of her, then turned away, scooping up his hat on the way to his eighteen-wheeler parked nearby.

As the rig pulled out of the lot and headed onto Route 68, Sonia smoothed her shirt down over the gun and turned around to find herself being stared at by the stranger. He was a tall man and large with muscle, wearing a black, ribbed wife beater that strained against his torso, blue jeans, and black hiking boots. His features were strong and sharp, his eyes a faded blue, and a neatly trimmed brown beard flecked with white covered his jaw, all of which made him ruggedly handsome. Sonia noticed he also had tattoos on his arms; an almost cartoonish depiction of an ax-wielding executioner on his right forearm and a hissing cobra coiled around the left.

"What?" she asked.

The man smiled wide, flashing a full set of off-white teeth. His eyes crinkled at their outer corners. "Was it a bluff?"

"I ain't telling," she replied with a smile of her own. Sonia studied the man for a moment, then said, "Today's your lucky day."

The stranger's brows rose. "How so?"

"You're the one-hundredth patron! Your drinks are on me."

"About time my luck changed," he chuckled.

Grinning, Sonia led the way into the inn. As they squeezed in at the counter, the bartender slid Sonia's vodka on the rocks with a lemon wedge garnish in front of her. "It's on the house. Thanks for takin' care of that jackass."

"Well, he _did_ grope one of my boobs," Sonia replied, pinching the lemon wedge from her drink to squeeze more of the juice into it.

"Double shot of whiskey," the stranger ordered. "Keep it clean."

The bartender nodded and set about preparing it. When the glass of whiskey slid across the counter to the man, Sonia dropped a hundred dollar bill down in front of the bartender. "Put him on my tab, and keep the drinks coming."

"You got it," the bartender said with a gleeful smile, collecting the money.

Sonia lifted her vodka off the bar and turned to the stranger. "I got a table in the back, if you want to join me."

"Lead the way."

They weaved a path through the patrons crowded around the juke box belting out Stevie Ray Vaughan's _The House is Rockin'_ and came to Sonia's table, which was now occupied by a man.

"Well, I _had_ a table," she said, raising her voice over the din.

The stranger took the initiative, sitting his drink down. He looked over the man sitting there and said, "This table's reserved. Take a hike."

"Yeah, it's reserved," the man replied. "By me." He waved a hand at the stranger as if he were an annoying fly. "Fuck off."

In a flash movement, the stranger pulled a bowie knife from a sheath looped onto his belt and pushed the point under the man's chin, the steel drawing a drop of blood from his flesh. "Take a fuckin' hike; I hear it's good for one's health."

"Jesus fuck, dude," the man swore, rising from his seat with all haste. "It's just a table." He backed away from the stranger until he felt he was a safe distance away, then turned and fled the inn.

Sonia shook her head as she and the stranger sat down across from each other. "And they say violence ain't the answer."

"I've always hated that sayin'." The man took a swig of whiskey before continuing. "When you get right down to it, humans are just animals; it's in our nature to kill for the things we need and want, to kill to protect the things we have - a primal instinct, if you will. Anyone can resort to violence under the right circumstances. We're nothin' special, like a lot of people think. Granted, we're more intelligent than the rest of the animals in the kingdom, but despite how long our species has existed and how we've evolved, we're still only motivated by our baser instincts."

"I guess that's one way of looking at it."

"You don't agree?"

"I think it's more of a thing learned from exposure. I mean, when most people want something, they don't kill to get it. That takes a certain type of person. Violence is like language; some people can speak a smattering of it, learned here and there, but for people who've grown up around it, it's their native tongue."

"Curious simile," the man said. "I don't agree with it, but it's curious."

Sonia had nothing else to say on the matter, so she took a sip of vodka.

In the silence that followed, the man looked her over, and not in that vulgar, predatory manner in which Trevor had, but with a respectable, curious eye that Sonia much rather preferred. "You got Mediterranean features," he spoke. "Narrow nose, high cheekbones, olive skin, dark hair, black eyes. I'm guessin' Italian?"

"Good guess."

"Is it true what they say about Italians?"

"That we all have ties to Cosa Nostra?" she joked.

He chuckled. "I was referrin' to Italians being passionate, in every sense of the word."

"Well, I can't speak for others, but I don't think I'm that intense. So, uh, have you lived here long?"

"Most of my life. Born and raised in Sandy Shores. I left with my brother when I was seventeen, after our parents died. Figured we'd get thrown in the system and put in separate foster homes, so we took our lives into our own hands. We moved around Blaine County a lot, for years. Lived in Los Santos for a while. Eventually started living out of a trailer in the desert. Then I got thrown in Bolingbroke. Just got released a few weeks ago."

Sonia lifted her vodka to him. "Well, here's to you getting back to the world."

He clinked his glass against hers. "Thanks."

After taking a swallow, she asked, "What were you in for, if you don't mind a personal question?"

"Possessin' two pounds of crystal. Automatically made it intent to distribute, so I got fifteen years for it. Served all of it, although I could've gotten out earlier on good behavior since it was a first offense..." He grinned. "If I'd behaved."

Sonia shook her head. "I couldn't do fifteen years behind bars. Hell, I wouldn't even be able to do a month."

"The first couple of months were hell, I'll admit; seemed like time refused to move, but I eventually found shit to keep me busy. Threw myself into it so I wouldn't go stark ravin' mad. Other inmates were only a problem my first week there. The day I arrived, I was tested in the cafeteria, had some big asshole pick a fight with me. I broke his nose and his arm. Couple of days later, some of his pals tried to 'teach me a lesson'. I gave them one of my own. Broke a guy's spine and paralyzed him for life. I got sent to the Hole for two weeks, but word got around. No one ever fucked with me again."

"Assuming that guy's pals were of average build, it wasn't intelligent to pick a fight with you in the first place. You're kinda huge."

"In more ways than one," he said with a grin and a wink. "What about you? You seem a bit out of place here; the way you dress, the way you look and talk...I can't help but think you're new to the area."

She nodded. "Moved to Sandy Shores last Saturday. I'm originally from Vermont."

"Any particular reason why you moved here?"

"I don't know, there's just...something about it. I'm kind of a wanderer, been traveling across the states a lot, looking for a new place to call home. Sandy Shores just seemed interesting."

The man studied her for a long stretch, then said, "I don't see anything interestin' about Sandy Shores. To be honest, it seems like you're runnin' from something to me."

_Running_ and _hiding from something_. "Everybody runs from something one time or another in their life."

"What're you runnin' from?"

"The past, let's just leave it at that."

"Fair enough. But if you want some advice, don't run from the past, 'cause it eventually catches up. Send the past runnin'."

_I would if the past wasn't an army of pissed off, psycho gangsters who'll rape and torture me until I beg for death if they ever find me. It'd be different if it was only one man, or I had an equally vicious army_, she thought, but she said, "I'll keep that in mind."

"Excuse me for interruptin'," said a voice.

Sonia and the stranger looked up to see the bartender standing there, wringing the hem of her shirt with a frown on her face. Her eyes were on Sonia. "I need your help, if you don't mind. It's important...an emergency."

Sonia's brows rose. "Uh...okay." She looked at the stranger across from her. "You mind?"

"No. I'll be here."

Sonia rose from her seat, and the bartender led her across the crowded room, through a back door and up a flight of stairs to the second floor of the inn. They came to a dimly lit hallway lined with a few doors. The bartender entered the third one on the left, and Sonia followed her inside. She found herself in a small office. A scantily clad woman sat in a chair in front of a cluttered desk, her face streaked with mascara, her eyes red and wet from crying.

The bartender went over to her and put her hands on the woman's shoulders. "Tell her what you told me, honey."

"It's my friend Allison," the woman said, sniffling. "She called me, said she was in trouble. Her john was beatin' on her again. She was beggin' me for help, then I could hear him in the background, hollerin' at her, callin' her names and shit. She started screamin', then...then the line went dead."

Sonia looked between her and the bartender, confused. "What does this have to do with me?"

"Somebody's gotta do somethin'!" the woman wailed. "He could kill her!"

"You handled that gropin' jackass earlier," the bartender added. "Can't you do somethin' 'bout this asshole? He's always doin' this shit, not just to Allison, but another girl, too."

"Doesn't she have a pimp who can handle it?" Sonia asked.

"I tried him, but he's wasted out his goddamn mind. Our pimp's a fuckin' smackhead," the prostitute explained, her tone full of disdain. "And he's with the Devil's Sons; they're a-"

_Not them again._ "Biker gang. Yeah, I've heard of them."

"All us girls are the club's property," the woman explained. "But our pimp's got a little side business goin' with Allison and a few of the other girls. He pimps all of us out to support his club, but he pimps them out extra hard to support his expensive habit. Club don't know he's a smackhead, only been on H a year and he hides the track marks well when he ain't injectin' between his toes. Half the time he don't give a shit what happens to us, 'cause he can just get more girls to replace us; kidnaps homeless and runaways off the street. Girls ain't gonna ever say anything about his problem, 'cause it's pointless. The MC ain't gonna take a whore's word over a brother's."

"Allison ain't gonna get any help from that asshole, so that leaves you," the bartender said. "If it's money you want, I'll pay you myself. A girl's life is on the line, a young girl who's only doin' what she can to get by. As if that ain't bad enough, she's bein' doubly taken advantage of by her 'boss' and has to suffer this john's cruel deviancy."

Sonia did not like to be guilted into doing anything, but the woman struck a nerve nonetheless. She knew all too well what it was like to be a young woman doing what she could to survive. Sonia heaved out a sigh. "Okay, okay. Fine." She glanced at the prostitute, frowning a little. "Come on, let's go before I change my mind."

* * *

The prostitute's blue Phoenix sped along a dirt road, tires stirring up desert dust. It was a clear night, the moon big and bright, inching its way across a dark sky clustered with countless stars.

_Beautiful_, Sonia thought, staring up through the passenger window with a small smile. From the time she was thirteen, she'd always loved the stars. There were many nights when she drove into the Venturas desert to look at them, where the city's loud lights didn't drown most of them out. She could only imagine how many could be seen at the apex of Mount Chiliad. She made a mental note to go up there soon, then got down to business.

"So, what's your name?" Sonia asked the brunette woman.

"Barbara."

"I'm Sonia. So, Barbara, who's the john?"

The woman hesitated, her expression grim. Then, with a sigh, she pushed on, "You're gonna find out anyway. Edgar Cain, he commands the Sheriff's station in Sandy Shores."

Sonia couldn't help a smile. _Oh, good, a man with some power. Maybe this wasn't such a bad idea after all._

"You know," Barbara continued, "He's married and got three kids, seems like a normal enough guy unless you're a workin' girl; nobody but us and our pimp knows about his nightly 'dates'."

"Everybody's got a secret." And Sonia's mind was already working out a way to use his against him. There was an opportunity here; having the Commander under her thumb would eventually come in handy if she ever got herself into any trouble with the law. Given the company she was starting to keep and her own propensity for making trouble for herself, that possibility was looking inevitable. "You said your friend called you. You got a cellphone on you?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"A good one? With a camera feature? If so, I'm gonna need it."

Barbara steered the Phoenix with one hand while the other fished her iFruit out of her skirt pocket. She handed the device over to Sonia. "What're you plannin' to do?"

Sonia smiled. "What I do best. Tell me about your friend Allison. How old is she?"

"She's legal age, but still too young to be doin' this shit. Eighteen."

"How long has she been prostituting herself?"

Barbara shook her head. "I don't wanna say."

"I ain't gonna tell the cops if that's what you're worried about. I know what it's like to do what you gotta do to get by."

The prostitute looked at her in surprise. "You're a workin' girl? You don't look like one."

"It was a long time ago, and it was short-lived. I spent two years of my late adolecence living on the streets. I turned tricks to get by for a while, then I found another way."

"How?"

"Let's just focus on Allison. How long?"

"Since she was sixteen. She ran away from home, had an abusive step-father and a drug-addict mother who didn't give a shit about her."

"Has the Commander ever solicited her when she was under the age of consent?"

"Not that I recall, but there's another, a seventeen-year-old girl he pays for sometimes. It's just Allison and that girl he solicits. He likes them young."

Sonia said nothing. She left Barbara's Phoenix and entered a memory; a dark bedroom, a young girl's bedroom with stars on the ceiling. They'd been those plastic, adhesive, glow-in-the-dark stars that kids back in those days raved over; cheap things, but she'd had enough of them to cover her entire ceiling. When she heard the door creak open late at night, smelled the alcohol and felt the mattress sag, she would stare at those yellowish glowing stars and imagine she had wings; she pretended her ceiling was space, and she could fly to a world where monsters didn't exist. She'd loved her stars for the mere fact that they could take her away. But sometimes the monster took _her_ away and put her in a cage. It was never like the stories she'd read as a child, where the monster loses and everyone lived happily ever after. No, in her story, the monster always won. Even now, he was still winning.

Sonia shook her head hard, as if it might dislodge the memory. _What's the fucking deal with me today?_ she wondered, but she knew. She'd been thinking about her days of heroin abuse earlier, and one old memory usually triggers another. She should've seen this coming.

"Where did he take Allison?" Sonia's voice sounded constricted even to her own ears. She had to clear her throat with a cough, to force away the annoying lump.

"He's got a special trailer he uses just for this. It ain't far from here." Barbara looked at her. "You okay?"

"Yep," Sonia replied with a smile.

Barbara was right about it not being far. They reached the trailer in a matter of minutes. It was on the edge of Senora National Park and away from the main roads. Barbara turned her car onto another dirt road that led up to the old, rusty double-wide, where it sat alone.

"Turn the headlights off," Sonia instructed. "And park right here."

Barbara switched the lights off and pulled off to the side of the dirt road as she was told to. "What now?"

"I'm gonna go handle things, and you're gonna stay in the car."

"Ed's a big guy. If he tries to attack you or somethin', you're gonna need help."

_The hell I will_. "Even if I did, what exactly can you do?"

Barbara produced a switchblade from her skirt pocket. "Stab him. That's my friend in there, my best friend. I want to help, if I can. Besides, two have a better chance than one."

"Are you sure about this?"

Barbara nodded.

"Suit yourself. But you do exactly what I tell you to do, okay?"

"I got it."

"Then let's go. Stay behind me and don't make any noise."

With that, the women exited the Phoenix and Sonia led the way up the rest of the road. As they approached the trailer, they could hear loud grunting and Allison's cries of "Stop! Please, stop!"

"Take it!" the man's gruff voice followed. "Take it like the dirty fuckin' whore you are!"

Allison then proceeded to screech, a long, drawn-out sound of agony. "Stop! Please! You're hurting me!"

"Shut the fuck up and take it, you cunt bitch!" A solid whack sounded, like the snap of a belt. Then another and another, the young woman wailing with each.

Sonia used the noise to mask her entrance into the trailer. The man had left the door unlocked, likely because the trailer was out in the middle of nowhere and he felt safe enough to assume he wouldn't be disturbed.

_An error he's going to regret_, she thought as she crept along through the small space to the back of the trailer where the cries came from, Barbara close behind her with her knife in hand. The tiny bedroom came into view and Sonia saw the Commander's enormous, fleshy rear as it ground and smacked against Allison's smaller, petite rump. The lighting in the room gleamed off their sweat-slickened bodies. The man had his head bowed and his shoulders hunched, grunting with every harsh thrust, while the girl sobbed helplessly.

The young woman had been handcuffed to the bed's metal-framed head support, her arms stretched out and straining. The metal of the cuffs cut into her wrists, drawing enough blood to stain the pillows with it. There were bruises all over her and bleeding marks crisscrossing her back and buttocks. The riding crop used to inflict those injuries lay forgotten on the floor at the foot of the bed. Sonia could also see(and wished she couldn't) that the man had gone in the woman's back entrance instead of the front. No wonder the poor girl was screaming with all the torture she was being put through.

Sonia lifted the phone up, accessed the camera, and cleared her throat noisily. When the Commander started and turned his head toward the sound, she snapped not one but three photos, then pocketed the phone.

Wide-eyed, the man lurched off the bed, his erect penis and huge belly swinging with the movement. "What the fuck! You can't come bargin' in here like this! Who the fuck do you think you are!?"

"A concerned citizen who just witnessed the Commander of Sandy Shores' Sheriff's department anally rape a prostitute. Glad to meet you."

The man sneered. "It ain't rape. Can't rape a fuckin' whore."

Sonia's jaw set and her hands clenched into fists as her fury rose up, a fiery beast with claws and teeth that tore at her, seeking her self-control. But Logic and Rationality leashed it. The man was more useful to her alive, no matter how much she wanted to tear his throat out with her bare hands. There would come a day, however, when he would no longer be useful.

"Strange. I could've sworn I heard her yelling for you to _stop_ on several occasions. Whore or not, no fucking means no."

The man scoffed. "It's just an act; we're role-playing."

Sonia's black eyes flicked over to Allison, who still knelt on the bed with her abused behind in the air. "Allison, was it an act?"

"No!" the woman wailed. "God, _look_ at me! Look what he did to me! Does it look like a fuckin' act!? That fuckin' asshole raped me!"

Sonia's gaze went back to the Commander. "She says it ain't an act, and I believe her."

Cain laughed. "So fuckin' what?"

Sonia patted her pocket where she'd put the phone. "Proof, that's what. It may not prove rape, but it'll prove infidelity...and solicitation of prostitution, which I believe _is_ against the law in this state. And now I'm gonna tell you what's gonna happen." She stepped further into the room, her face expressionless, but her eyes flashed with the wrath she kept bottled up. "You are _never_ gonna come near Allison or that seventeen year old again. In fact, you're gonna stay away from prostitutes altogether."

The Commander's mouth dropped open, then snapped closed, lips spreading into a thin, angry line.

"Yeah, I know about your...'interest' in the younger generation. If you do have the foolish courage to come near any of them again, I'll hack off your cock, rape you with it, then make you eat every shit-stained inch of it." She glanced down at his flaccid penis, smirking. "Which, unfortunately, should make for a short meal."

Cain flushed red. "You ain't gonna do-"

Sonia cut him off, "In exchange for my silence on the matter of your illicit activity, if I ever happen to find myself in trouble with the law here, you're gonna make it go away. I'd hate myself if I 'accidentally' sent these pictures of you fucking a prostitute to your wife, your children, and the Sheriff. Hell, they may even find their way to Weazel News, and so might a certain underage prostitute you seem fond of. You know how those reporters love a scandalous story."

Cain's jowly face got redder in his fury. "You can't fuckin' blackmail me!"

"Sure I can," she grinned. "But let's not call it that; blackmail's an ugly word. Think of it as...an 'agreement'.

"You can go to hell, you fuckin' cunt! Don't think I don't know who you are, _Sonia_. All I gotta do is make one phone call to your Marshal and I can have you put in prison!"

Sonia laughed. "Can you? Let's see." She brought the phone out again and accessed the photo album on it. "Let's see if you can have me in prison by the time these photos reach the media. "

Cain nervously bit his lip, trying to come to some kind of decision. Finding one, he lurched at Sonia, hands going for the cellphone. She sidestepped his slow advance easily enough, whipping her pistol out from where it was tucked in her pants, aiming it between the man's eyes. "I propose a simple agreement and you refuse it?" She pocketed the phone and held her hand out to Barbara. "Let me have the knife. Ed here has decided he no longer wants to count his dick among his anatomy. I'll gladly subtract it for him."

"Wait!" the Commander cried, throwing his hands up. "Just wait, okay? I'm not refusin'." He heaved out a helpless sigh. "I'll do what you want."

Sonia studied his face, his eyes, looking for a trick, a lie. Satisfied by what she didn't see, she said, "Good, you can start by handing over the key to those cuffs."

Cain grabbed it off the nightstand table and gave it to her. Sonia dangled it out to Barbara, who took it and went to release her friend. Sonia kept in front of the man, gun trained on him, to ensure he didn't try anything as Barbara helped Allison get dressed.

Once clothed, the young blonde stepped up to Cain and spat in his face. "I hope she kills you!"

Barbara took Allison gently by the elbow and steered her through the bedroom door. "Come on, Ally, let's get you out of here."

"I hope she blows your fuckin' brains out! You disgustin' pig!"

As the trailer door closed, Cain anxiously eyed the pistol pointed at his forehead and said, "Now look, you don't need that anymore. We got an agreement. I'll stay away from the girls. I'll help you out when you need it."

"Will you? Somehow, I don't believe you; you didn't take me serious before, so I doubt you're taking me serious enough now. The only way I will believe you is with this." She waved the gun at his face, then aimed it low and shot through the man's instep.

He howled like a wounded dog, dropping against the mattress and slipping off the edge to the floor, cradling the bleeding pedal extremity. "F-Fuck..._Fuck_! You shot me! You psycho bitch, you fuckin' shot me! Oh, Jesus. Oh, _Jesus_."

"I'm sure what you're going through is exceedingly painful, but hey, at least the wound ain't gonna kill you," Sonia assured him. "It'll be a good reminder, however; every time you take a step and you feel that pain, you'll think of me and our agreement." She bent over him and reached out, gripping his flabby chin with her free hand to make him look her in the eye. "You're mine now. Two last things, you're gonna think up a suitable lie when you're asked how this 'accidental' injury happened; maybe you were cleaning your gun and it went off. You'll also think of a suitable lie to tell the girls' pimp for why you can no longer enjoy their services, one that won't put their lives in danger." Sonia let his chin go and slapped him on the cheek a few times. "I strongly advise you not to fuck it up, Eddie."

She collected the spent bullet and casing off the floor, while the man whimpered and sobbed. Sonia smiled; the sound of his agony was like sweet, sweet music.

Outside, Sonia found the girls waiting for her by the Phoenix. Barbara looked at her for a long moment, then asked, "The gunshot...you really killed him?"

"No. He's more useful alive, to me anyway. But don't worry, he gets the picture now. He won't be coming near any prostitute again. I'm gonna have to hold on to your phone, Barbara. Drop by the inn tomorrow, and I'll have another one for you."

The brunette nodded.

Sonia eyed Allison. She hadn't gotten a good look at her face earlier, but now she saw the girl had an eye that was starting to purple, a bloody nose and a split lip to go along with all her other injuries. "Jesus God, are you okay, sweetie? We should probably get you to a hospital."

Allison shook her head hard. "No, I'm fine. No hospitals. They'll get the pigs involved and they'll arrest me; they've done it before. I just wanna go home."

Barbara put an arm around her shoulders and Allison clasped her hand, pressing her cheek against it. "I'll see to her injuries. Wouldn't be the first time."

"Thanks for stoppin' him," Allison said. "But I still wished you'd killed him."

"His time will come," Sonia promised.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Sonia."

"No, I mean, _who are you_? Like, what kind of person does this? You don't even know me, but you went out of your way to help."

Sonia shrugged. "I'm the kind of person who seizes an opportunity when one presents itself." Of course she left out how she understood the girl's lot in life, among other things, but Allison didn't need to know that. Sonia still wasn't sure why she'd told Barbara about her stint as a streetwalker. "Let's get out of here. That fat swine's probably called for an ambulance by now."

* * *

Barbara dropped her off outside the inn. Sonia waved goodbye to the women and headed inside. Now, more than ever, did she need that drink, as those past memories were not as far back in her mind as she'd like them to be.

A good deal of the patrons had gone home for the night, as the place wasn't nearly as crowded as it had been earlier. The bartender took note of her and stepped from behind the counter to question her. "How'd it go? Was she okay?"

"She was raped, beaten, and whipped with a riding crop, but she seems like a strong girl. I think she'll be okay," Sonia assured her.

"What about the john?"

"Taken care of. He won't be 'visiting' any prostitutes again."

The bartender's eyes widened. "Should I take that to mean you...you know...sent him on a 'permanent vacation'?"

_It crossed my mind to, dozens of times._ "No. Just scared him...and blackmailed him."

"Blackmailed him?"

"Do you really wanna know?"

The bartender shook her head. "As long as the girls are safe from him, no, I don't need to know the details. Oh, also..." She paused as she dug through a pants' pocket and pulled out a wad of cash, holding it out to Sonia. "It's three hundred, your tab included...for helpin' Allison. I'd offer more, but it's the best I can do."

Sonia shook her head and pushed her hand away. "No. I don't want the money." _I need it, but I ain't taking it._

The bartender looked confused. "Are you sure?"

"Yeah..." Sonia shrugged, smiling a little. "I didn't do it just for Allison. Besides, I got what I wanted out of it."

The bartender laughed. "I ain't gonna ask what that is." She nodded her head toward the back of the room. "Someone's still waitin' for you. He ordered up another round for you. Also, I wanted to talk to you 'bout somethin'...a little business opportunity. Think you can drop by tomorrow? Say, fourish?"

Sonia nodded. "Sure, why not? I'm always up for business opportunities."

"Great. Tomorrow then."

The bartender went back to her post behind the counter and Sonia headed over to her table, taking her seat. The stranger offered her a smile, which she returned. "I really didn't think you'd still be here."

"And yet you came back. Maybe you hoped I'd still be here?"

"Honestly, I don't hope for anything. I just decided I wasn't done drinking yet."

The man laughed. "Ouch."

"Oh, don't get me wrong, I'm glad you're still here. I mean, it beats drinking alone, right? Now, where were we?"

The two talked and drank for a couple of hours, though the topics were nothing revealing, at least on Sonia's part. For every lie she was forced to tell him, she took a drink, and for every drink, she told another lie. By the time they decided to call it a night, she was wrecked beyond reason, hardly able to stand.

The man offered her support as they headed out to the parking lot. Sonia clung to him, the world around her unfocused and spinning like a top.

"Jesus God, I drank..." Sonia slurred. "I drank waaaay too much. Fucking hell, I shouldn't've drank so...so much." She felt a jolt of anxiety, unable to recall anything they had talked about. "What-what'd I tell you? What'd I say? Did I...did I slip?"

"Slip?" The man sounded confused.

"I...I slipped, din't I? Shit!" She clumsily grabbed a fistful of his shirt and thrust a finger under his nose, or where she thought his nose was. "You...you ain't gonna say shit...about nothing! You don't know nothing! I'll murder the shit outta you..swear to Jesus!"

The man laughed at her and slipped an arm about her waist. "I better drive you home."

Sonia squinted at him, trying to focus him in to no avail. "Home...?" She shook her head, and groaned, as the movement made her more dizzy. "Can't go back...don't got a home."

The man opened the passenger door of his SUV parked nearby. "I thought you said you lived in Sandy Shores?"

"...Did I tell you that? I don't...I don't fucking remember. Uh, yeah...yeah, I live there." She pressed a hand to her forehead, trying to recall where in Sandy Shores she lived. The address refused to surface, but she had a mental picture of the house. "It's green and blue."

"What's green and blue?" he asked as he helped her into the seat.

"Aqua, I mean. The house...by the lake. Where I-where I live. Shit, I'm drunk." She squinted at him again. "You don't-you don't seem drunk. Why ain't you drunk?"

"'Cause you drank almost every shot of whiskey I ordered."

"What're you saying?" she snapped, offended by what she thought he was implying. "I'm drunk...but-but I'm notta fucking drunk! Jesus, I have a few drinks, and you call me an alco-alcoholic! You...you're a fucking assclown!"

"You were a helluva lot nicer when you were sober," he informed her as he closed the passenger door.

Sonia glared at his blurry form as it moved around the SUV to the driver's side. The man slid into the seat, stuck the key in the ignition, then leaned across her lap for the passenger seatbelt, buckling her in. She watched him, the anger smoothing out of her face at the gesture. "You're a nice guy."

He raised his head until he was eye level with her and smiled. "I thought I was an assclown?"

Sonia pressed her face closer to his, unsure of what she was doing. "A nice assclown."

The man looked at her for a moment, then closed the brief space between them and kissed her, a hand cupping her cheek. Sonia found herself returning it, tittering against his mouth at the way his beard tickled. He pressed harder into the kiss, pushing his tongue past her lips and a hand up her shirt and bra. He cupped a breast and squeezed, groaning. Sonia made a sound of protest, pushing her hands against his chest.

"No," she said when her mouth was free, shaking her head. "No more."

The man relented, leaning back into his seat. "Sorry. I...uh, I haven't been with a woman in fifteen years. I guess I'm a little rusty...and eager."

Sonia didn't respond. She didn't know how to. It wasn't him, not really. She wanted to be touched, kissed, but then she didn't. Those things made her afraid. Nothing made sense. Her head was muddled, her thoughts tangled.

The drive into Sandy Shores was an awkward and silent one. The man didn't have much trouble finding the house, as there was only one aqua-colored one in town. Once parked in the dirt driveway, the man was kind enough to help Sonia up the stairs to the front door. She struggled to get the key in the lock until the man took it from her and unlocked the door himself.

"Thanks," she said, holding onto the door jamb to steady her swaying.

"Sure." The man gazed at her for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Would you be opposed to a chaste good night kiss, or have I lost what little trust I had?"

"I don't...I don't even know your name."

He laughed. "That didn't seem to matter to you not long ago. But if it helps, I'm Brice."

Sonia pinched at the fabric of his wife beater. "Sonia. I'm really fucking drunk, Brice." She said it as if she were carrying some contagious, incurable disease.

"I noticed," Brice replied. "Well...good night, Sonia." He waited there for a moment, and when she didn't make the move he wanted her to make, he turned away.

Sonia stumbled out after him, grabbing his arm. "Wait."

The man faced her with an inquiring look.

"I-I'm looking for something..."

"What exactly?"

Sonia shook her head. _What? What am I looking for?_ "Something...someone...some feeling..." She let go of his arm and dropped her head in her hands, groaning. "I'm-I'm not making any fucking sense!"

"We're all looking for someone."

She shook her head again. "I don't know what I'm looking for. I don't-I don't even think I'll ever find it, but...I can't stop looking. How fucking...how fucking stupid is that!?"

"It ain't stupid at all. You don't know what you're lookin' for, but maybe you'll know it when you find it. Search me, if you want."

Sonia made a face. "You just...you just wanna fuck."

Brice laughed. "Yeah, I do, but who's to say we both won't find what we're lookin' for? Nothin' ventured, nothin' gained. We don't find what we're lookin' for, then at least we had a fun night."

"Maybe." Her hand reached up his broad chest, fingers hooking into the collar of his wife beater, pulling him toward her front door. "Guess we'll find out."


	6. Chapter 5: Deals With Devils

**Chapter Five: Deals With Devils**

* * *

"Ugggghhh..." The groan came from the human-shaped lump underneath the thin, purple bed sheet. A human-shaped lump with a colossal hangover.

Sonia lay there for several moments, head buried under her pillow. Not only did she have a tremendous headache, but her mouth felt as if it were full of the entire Senora Desert and there was a dull ache between her legs. She tried to recall last night, but the last thing she remembered was returning to the Yellow Jack after helping out Allison the prostitute and drinking with a man whose name she hadn't known. If he'd told her, it was lost now, erased by the alcohol. She had enough sense, however, to connect the ache between her thighs to that man; it only seemed plausible, and it wouldn't have been the first time she'd had a shit-faced one night stand.

_Thank God I'm on the pill._ She hadn't really had any reason to be on it, considering last night was the first time she'd had sex in a little over a year, but she'd been on birth control since she was a teenager and it had become a habit to stay on it. It was good to be on the safe side in any case.

Sonia pushed the pillow off her head and pulled the sheet back cautiously. She was facing the bedroom window and the sun beamed through the glass right in her face, bright and painful. She winced, shutting her eyes tight against the brain-spearing light. She was also aware of some kind of noise coming from outside, like a car back-firing a few blocks over, only the sound went on in a sporadic pattern. _Maybe someone's working on their roof or something._

It seemed like the best idea in the world to bury her tortured head back under her pillow and sleep off the hangover, but something recollected in her fogged brain. She was supposed to be meeting the Yellow Jack's bartender today to talk business. Turning over on her back and squinting at the clock on the nightstand, she saw it was only a little past two in the afternoon and there was a note on the table.

Slowly sitting up, Sonia reached for the leaf of paper and looked it over. The fine, black script read:

_You're more intense than you think. Thanks for a great time. We should do this again._

_Brice._

The man included his phone number under his signature. Sonia stared at the digits for a moment, uncertain of what she should do with them, uncertain of whether or not she even wanted to see the guy again. From what she could remember of him, he had seemed nice, and he'd been decent enough to only make _one_ innuendo about his penis size, unlike some of the other guys she'd met throughout her life. She put the note back on the nightstand, filing the man under Maybe.

Forgoing her house robe, Sonia untangled herself from the bed sheet, stood from the mattress, and trudged naked into the bathroom, rubbing at her throbbing head. She rummaged through the medicine cabinet for some aspirin, swallowed a handful of the little white pills, then ran a cold shower to get some energy flowing for her walk to the Yellow Jack.

The water felt nice, a relief from her hot, stuffy bedroom. It also did what she wanted it to do, waking her up fully and clearing her groggy mind. After toweling off, rubbing on some of her favorite rose oil, and dressing for the day, she ran a brush through her damp hair, not bothering to blow dry it, as the desert heat would do the job just as well. Sonia then grabbed all her necessary items, as well as an orange from her fridge as she made her way out the door.

The heat and sunlight slammed into her the moment she stepped outside, and that noise she'd heard earlier still boomed on, loud as a New Years Eve party in Hell now. It made her head throb all the worse. _Sounds like dynamite being set off._

Pushing her sunglasses down over her sensitive eyes, she started down the stairs and saw her neighbor Bert outside his trailer, pulling the stubborn desert weeds from around his property. He noticed her and lifted a hand in greeting, pressing the other into the small of his back to work out a kink. "How goes it, neighbor?"

"It goes." Sonia came over and leaned against the fence that separated their yards. "You know what's going on over there?" she asked, looking in the direction the blasts still came from. She could see small puffs of smoke or dust rising over the trailers there. She couldn't see anything on fire, however, nor did she hear any sirens.

Bert sighed as if he were expelling years of bottled up frustration and anger, then shook his head. "My bet, Trevor is what the hell's goin' on. Every small town's got a resident nutjob, and he's ours, unfortunately. He lives over yonder, where them bangs're comin' from." The man made a sour face as he removed his ball cap and swept a forearm across his sweaty brow. "Prob'ly tossin' grenades in his yard again. Best not to cross paths with him, if you can avoid it."

"I couldn't; I've already had the...'pleasure' of meeting him."

"I'm so sorry." There was sincerity in the man's tone and in the empathetic expression on his face.

Sonia had to laugh. "How does he get away with setting off grenades in public?"

Bert shrugged. "Deputies in this town ain't exactly capable of doin' their jobs, and it don't help that they're all terrified of him. Most folks here are, but that don't stop them from yappin' 'bout that whacko. If they ain't talkin' 'bout his recent nutty antics, they're talkin' 'bout his past nutty antics." He shook his head, frowning. "All this gossipin' folks do, it's gonna turn that damn psychopath into a local legend, and people like that don't deserve any kind of respect."

"He has it all the same. By fearing him, they're respecting him; the two go hand in hand. It's not the kind of respect most people look for, but I'll bet the farm it's the kind of respect he wants. Psychos wouldn't have it any other way." Sonia straightened up from the fence. "Well, I'll let you get back to your yard work. See you around."

Bert placed his hat back on his head and nodded to her. "You be careful out there."

Cutting into her orange with her switchblade, Sonia started up the street and made a left around the corner, following the road that led to the commercial part of town. She had a little bit of shopping to do before she headed to the Yellow Jack; she'd promised Barbara a new cellphone and needed to purchase a pack of Redwoods to make it through the day, or Sandy Shores was going to have another psychopath on its hands.

She reached a junction in the road. Here the explosions grew louder. Sonia glanced up the cross street and her brows shot up at what she saw taking place a few trailers away. _Well, this is definitely one of the more bizarre things I've seen in recent years._

There he was, the bane of Blaine County, the notorious Trevor Philips standing stark naked in his front yard, wasting perfectly good grenades on it. Sonia was grateful that there were no children around, as this was exactly the kind of shit that would scar a young mind for life.

Shaking her head and nibbling on another slice of orange, Sonia carried on to her destination, wondering if _she_ would ever be able to scrub that image from her mind.

Jerry was posted behind the check-out counter when she entered the convenience store. The man looked bored and a bit tired, not at all concerned or curious about the explosions coming from a street over. Perhaps he'd gotten used to this kind of thing.

Sonia stepped up to the counter. "How's it going, Jerry?"

"Busy," he replied, not bothering to conceal his bitterness. "Don't got time to get my job done now that I'm doing yours."

"Hey, look on the bright side. You can give yourself a raise for all this hard work," she said. "Give me a pack of Redwoods and one of those prepaid cells behind you."

Jerry turned and grabbed the pack of Redwoods off the cigarette shelf, then sidled over to where the prepaid cellphones hung from their hooks. "Which one you want?"

"Doesn't matter, just make sure it's got a camera feature."

Jerry picked one out and turned back to her, sitting the items on the counter. "This prepaid cell is the most expensive, but it's worth the money. Don't gotta pay by the minute, so no hassle of having to buy refill cards constantly. All you gotta do is buy a thirty-five dollar card and that'll set you up with unlimited text and talk for a month. Gotta buy data separate, though. Forty dollar card will get you unlimited data for a month."

Sonia had a feeling she was being taken for a ride, but she let it slide, not wanting to get in to it with the man. "Sounds good. Give me both cards."

The manager grabbed them off the shelf, then rang up all the items on the register. "A hundred and forty-eight dollars and eighty-nine cents."

Sonia handed over her debit card, which the man swiped through one of those hand-held card readers that had grown obsolete due to modernized technology, but then Sandy Shores was one those towns stuck in time; the 80's, to be more precise, what with all the mullets and voluminous perms going around.

While she signed her name on the device, Jerry bagged her stuff, sitting it and her debit card in front of her on the counter.

"Have a nice rest of the day, Jerry."

Outside, Sonia finished off her orange, then opened her fresh pack of cigarettes, lighting one up as she headed off for the Yellow Jack Inn. The sun was high up and it was a cloudless day. The fierce heat beat down on her and made her long walk to the establishment a harsh one. By the time she reached it, her purple camisole was soaked in sweat, the fabric sticking to her uncomfortably, and her mouth and throat were parched. Strangely though, her headache was gone.

Sonia stepped up to the door and rapped on the glass, wondering if the bartender was there yet; she had no idea if she was early or late, having no clock on hand.

The woman finally appeared to turn the lock and let her inside. "You're a little early. I like that."

Sonia stepped past the bartender and let out a sigh as she was greeted with chilled air that dried the sweat on her forehead and brought relief to her heated skin. She pulled up her sunglasses, piled up her long hair and fanned some of that cold air to the back of her neck. _Maybe I should get a hair cut._ "I'm surprised I'm early. Had to walk all the way here."

"Ain't got a car?" the woman asked, shutting the door and locking it back up.

"Not yet," Sonia replied as she took a seat on a stool.

The bartender moved behind the counter. "Can I get you a refreshin' drink?"

"Just ice water, thanks."

The woman grabbed a clean glass, scooped some ice cubes into it from the dispenser under the counter, then filled the glass up from the water tap. She sat it in front of Sonia, then held her hand out. "We ain't been properly introduced yet. I'm Janet, owner slash bartender of this fine establishment."

Sonia shook her hand. "Sonia, unemployed wanderer looking for a place to call home."

Janet's brows rose. "Here, of all places?"

Sonia shrugged as she downed the entire glass of water in a few gulps, dabbing at her mouth with the back of her hand. "You never know."

"I guess you don't. How you likin' it out here?"

"Some things agree with me, some don't. I think there's more to it than what you see, though."

Janet chuckled. "You're right on that account. This area may look as dull as dishwater, but it ain't, let me tell you. 'Least when it comes to illegal activity. Blaine County sees as much crime as Los Santos, and it's gotten worse in recent years, especially around these parts. Not really surprisin' when you think about it, though. Ain't much to do out here, so folks resort to drugs and alcohol and whatnot to keep themselves entertained."

"And I imagine there ain't good-paying, legit jobs out here, either. So people resort to crime to get by."

Janet nodded. "That's the way of it. It's the folks' boredom that's kept me in business, but it's the crime that's startin' to threaten it. I get all kinds of troublemakers in here; bikers, truckers, the usual angry drunks, and then there's this one guy, Trevor." Her face contorted with disgust. "In his own damn league of trouble, that one. He's the one you gotta really-"

"Watch out for? Avoid?" Sonia cut in. _How many people are gonna warn me about him? Why don't they just put up signs around town, save the trouble?_ "You're not the first person to tell me that. I actually met the guy my third day here. I live over in Sandy Shores."

Janet gave her that same look Bert had, that sympathetic look. "I'd move if I was you. Anyway, if it ain't him causin' chaos, it's the bikers or the truckers. Even the self-employed prostitutes who hang around here have been known to claw each other's eyes out for a john. I hire chuckers to keep things civil, but some end up dead or they end up quittin' after a month or so, either 'cause they can't stand it out here or the job gets too dangerous for their tastes."

Sonia had a good idea where the woman was going with this. "And you want me to do the job."

Janet nodded. "Had six guys killed in here last week and now the deputies are threatenin' to have my place shut down if I don't get some good security lined up. I don't wanna go though some agency, 'cause they'll charge a fuckin' fortune. But you handled that trucker and that john, two brutes in one night. I think you'd do well as a chucker. I know it's a dangerous job-"

"I know my way around danger," Sonia cut in. "How much does it _pay_?"

"How does twelve hundred every two weeks sound?"

It sounded like chump change compared to the cash she had been making as an enforcer for the Lupo crime family. Still, she was jobless, and Janet was offering a hell of a lot more than what she would've made cashiering. This job also gave her something to do and it would make good use of her skill set.

"Janet," Sonia said with a smile. "You just got yourself a chucker."

The bartender returned the smile, pleased. "Glad to hear it. When can you start?"

"When do you need me?"

"Tonight, if you can. Happy Hour'll be startin' in an hour or so."

"Tonight it is then."

* * *

Keeping things civil at the Yellow Jack turned out to be an easy job, at least for Sonia's first night on it. It wasn't nearly as rowdy and crowded as it had been the previous night, despite being a Saturday. Most of the patrons kept to themselves, drinking in silent misery or watching blonde buxom bombshell Clarice Jenkins of Weazel News reporting about the recent finding of three decapitated bodies in the Grand Senora Desert.

Sonia listened from her seat at the bar while she fiddled with the new cellphone, getting the battery charged up and Commander Cain's compromising photos sent onto it from Barbara's iFruit. She figured she might as well keep the new one and give Barbara back hers; after all, the woman was paying for a contract on it, so it was only fair she got it back. Sonia didn't have much use for that kind of fancy gadget in any case. The cheap, burner cells got the job done just as well.

"_The gruesome murders are under investigation by the Blaine County Sheriff's Department_," Clarice spoke from the fuzzy TV screen. "_As of yet, they have no suspect, but a few witnesses claimed to have seen 'a suspicious-looking, __non-descriptive__ male walking suspiciously around Senora National Park, carrying a suspicious-looking item', though the witnesses can't seem to agree on what the item was. Some insist it had been a machete, others claim a chainsaw or a butcher's knife. Anyone with more information is urged to contact the Sheriff Department's tip line down at the bottom of your viewing screen. We'll keep you informed as the story develops. Stay tuned for Chip Chapman and his Dugout Report. He'll talk in depth about the Corkers' Friday win over the LC Swingers_."

The TV screen faded to a Sprunk commercial.

Sonia tuned out the annoying advertising jingle as she programmed Marshal Schmidt's number into her cellphone and considered calling him to let him know she had a job again; no doubt Jerry from the convenience store had told him she'd quit there. Then she heard the door to the inn bang open and Janet let out a groan from where she stood at the end of the counter, serving a man a beer.

"Christ in Heaven. I've told you a _thousand_ times, you've been banned from this establishment."

_Might be trouble_, Sonia thought, glancing up from the phone to see who the woman was speaking to. _Well, at least he's clothed_.

"Janet, Janet, Janet," Trevor sang as he steered over to the counter, parking his behind on a stool. "My sexy little minx of a barmaid! You and I both know I ain't gonna leave and you ain't gonna make me leave, so might as well give up this tedious song and dance." He leaned across the bar and gave the woman a pat on the hip. "Be a dear and get me a fuckin' drink. _Now_."

The bartender grimaced. "Look, Trevor, I just don't want any trouble. Deputies are gonna shut this place down if another person gets murdered here." She waved a hand at Sonia, who had gone back to playing with her phone. "Had to hire her to keep things civil 'round here, and-"

"Hold on," Trevor interrupted, jerking a thumb at Sonia. "_Her_? She who put a bullet in some prick biker's head while he was begging for his life a couple days ago? You want her to keep people from getting killed here?" He dropped his head back and laughed. "Hah! Perfect!"

Janet frowned, but said nothing.

_I'm really glad we're surrounded by drunks who won't remember hearing this conversation later_, Sonia thought. Then again, with the Commander now in her pocket, she doubted it would matter if they remembered or not. _Trevor's notoriety could play to my advantage, too_, she realized. Simply in knowing the man, people weren't likely to open their mouths if they happen to witness her or hear of her doing something illegal, assuming enough of them knew they were acquainted. Of course, she could help that along easily enough; tell a handful of Sandy Shores locals, and by the end of the day, it would be town gossip. If a person could rely on anything in small towns, it was news traveling fast. Any kind of news.

"You know," Sonia said to the man, not bothering to look up from her phone. "You've got a lot of nerve talking about me, _considering_."

He turned in his stool to face her, leaning an elbow on the bar. "I'm all nerve, sweetheart, but don't try to turn this around on me. All I'm doing is letting Janie here know _exactly_ what kind of person she's hiring."

"One little incident and you think you know me? And I'm sure you're really concerned about who 'Janie' hires."

"As a matter of fact, I am concerned...as a regular patron of this fine establishment. It gets shut down, I'm gonna be very fuckin' unhappy. And trust me, buttercup, nobody wants that."

"As it happens, Trevor, I am actually capable of not killing people."

"Oh, fuckin' really? Well, I don't buy it, 'cause to me it seemed like you not only didn't have a problem putting a bullet in that turd's head, but you also _enjoyed_ it." He leaned closer, a hand reaching out to play with a strand of hair draped over her shoulder. "And that really turns me on."

"Yeah," Sonia said, brushing his hand away and slipping off her stool. "Not everything is what it seems." She pocketed her cellphone and slid Barbara's iFruit across the counter to Janet, who was cleaning some beverage holders with a grimy rag. "Can you get this to Barbara? I have a feeling I ain't gonna see her tonight."

Janet collected it, nodding. "Sure thing."

Sonia turned to head off for the bathroom, but only got two steps away before the man's hand circled her arm in a tight grip. Sonia turned, giving Trevor an inquiring look.

"Where the fuck do you think you're going?" he demanded to know.

"To pee. Is that okay with you?"

Trevor seemed to actually consider if it was okay with him or not, despite it being a sarcastic question. "Fine." His fingers squeezed her arm so hard Sonia wondered if she'd find a bruise there later. "But you better not fuckin' leave. I know where you live, remember that."

Despite the threat, she found it curious that he'd be concerned with her sneaking out the bathroom window to run out on him or something. For a guy who seemed confident in himself, that was a rather insecure worry.

Sonia leaned her face close, her black eyes on his, and offered a somewhat smug smile. "I know where you live, too, honey."

"Oh, good," Trevor replied with a broad grin. "Drop by anytime you want. You can blow me, or fuck me. Or both." He finally released her arm, only for that hand to start creeping up her hip. "You're all mine, after all."

Sonia smacked his hand off. "I guess that makes you mine, too, then. I'm gonna have to return you for a refund."

"That's not a very nice thing to say to your boyfriend!" he growled, looking rather offended.

She grinned and gave him a few firm pats on a cheek. "Good thing you ain't my boyfriend then."

Sonia left him there, heading to the back where the bathrooms were. She locked the door behind her, then pulled the cellphone from her pocket. She hit Schmidt's contact number and it went straight to an automated message: _We're sorry, the number you dialed has been disconnected or is no longer in service._

Frowning, Sonia checked the contact number to see if she had programmed it in wrong, but every digit was the way she remembered it. _That's weird. Why is it disconnected? I'm supposed to be able to contact him._ She shrugged it off; maybe she hadn't remembered his cell number correctly. She would just have to call the Marshal's agency, try to contact him through the main office.

Sonia returned to the counter and her stool. In the brief time she had spent in the bathroom, Janet had served Trevor a bottle of something. Sonia wasn't sure what, as the label on the dark glass container was turned away from her. It did, however, have a potent alcoholic odor that she could smell even from where she sat.

"What poison are you drinking?" she asked the man.

"Hellfire," Trevor answered. "Strongest whiskey on the planet, illegal in forty-seven states. Ever had it?"

"No, I usually just stick to vodka."

Trevor rolled his eyes. "Why am I not surprised? Well, it's time you broadened your heady horizons, my pet." He reached across the counter and nabbed a shot glass sitting on the other side, then proceeded to fill it from the bottle.

"I am on the job, you know," Sonia reminded him; _a waste of breath_, she realized as he pushed the glass in front of her with a persistent look. "So, what's the alcohol content in this forbidden beverage?"

"Telling you would ruin the experience. Now stop annoying me with questions and drink it already."

Sonia shrugged and lifted the shot glass from the counter. _I suppose one ain't really gonna do anything._ She held the glass up to him, "Here's to trying new things." Then she tossed the shot back quick. It was too potent to go down smooth, the fiery sensation choking her. "Jesus God," Sonia coughed, her eyes watering. "That _is_ poison."

"Hah! Not bad, eh? Have another." Trevor poured into her glass, overfilling it and sloshing some of the dark amber liquid onto the bar. "Sooo, _killer_, what's your story?"

"You already know my story," she answered, taking a sip from the glass and grimacing.

"No," Trevor said, his face showing nothing but impatience. "I know the bullshit story you tried to feed me. I ain't a fuckin' idiot. You ain't no traveler or wanderer, looking for a home; I've killed enough of them to know they can't handle a gun the way you did the other day. Hell, half of them don't even carry them. Who are you _really_?"

Sonia tensed, realizing he had her cornered. _Shit, I should've seen this coming_. But she hadn't, and now she was unprepared for the question, her mind scrambling for an answer. "I'm a woman..." she started, uncertain of how to go on at first, but then her brain clicked. "Try being a woman traveling alone across the country and see how long you make it without knowing how to properly use a gun. If some travelers and wanderers don't keep a gun on them and know how to use it, it's because they're naive and stupid. I'm not; I wasn't raised that way. The world's a dangerous place, especially for women." She thought that was plausible, believable. And it had a grain of truth to it; she had been raised to use a gun properly, just not for the exact reason she'd given him.

Trevor didn't buy a single word of it. "Stop fuckin' bullshitting me. Do it again, _lie_ to me again, and I'll rip your goddamn tongue out."

_How does he know I'm lying?_ Sonia wondered. Was it just natural suspicion? Was he just good at reading people? Did she have a tell he'd already caught on to? She wanted to tell the truth, she really did; she wanted someone to know the real her, even if it was this lunatic. Just someone she could be herself around, so she wouldn't feel so goddamn lost and alone. _Would it really hurt anything? He can't possibly have any connections to Las Venturas' mob families...No, Sonia, you know it's stupid._ It was only one concern among many. He could always use the truth against her if it could benefit him somehow. She needed a way out of this, or at the very least, stall it.

"I could just tell you, but where would be the fun in that?" she said with a smile. "You're gonna guess."

His brows rose. "Am I? 'Cause to me it's looking more and more like I'm gonna have to rip the truth out of you. Literally."

"Come on, it'll be fun. It's always much more satisfying to discover the truth than to have someone just tell you," she reasoned, wondering if it was a waste of breath.

Trevor tossed back a shot of whiskey, then scoffed. "I could be guessing for the rest of my life. And how do I know you won't _lie_ and tell me I'm wrong if I guess right?"

"Because you're a smart guy; you'll be able to tell," Sonia flattered. "You knew I was lying right off the bat, didn't you?"

"Ooh, so you're finally admitting it?"

"I admit that I ain't from Vermont, and that's all the help you're getting out of me."

Trevor didn't need to consider it anymore, as he had just thought of how he was going to win her little game, and he was going to get something more out of it than just the truth. "Well, let's suppose I go along with this. What do I get out of it?"

"The truth ain't enough?"

He gave her look, and that look was enough to tell Sonia that she'd asked a stupid question. "Okay," she sighed. "What do you want then?" And she added quickly, "Besides sex, because that ain't gonna happen. You know I ain't that kind of girl; I mean, I'd have to be really, really, really drunk, at least."

Trevor shrugged and scratched at his face. "Then I'll get you really, really, really drunk..._if_ that's what I want. But I didn't say that's what I want now, did I? When are you gonna learn to stop assuming shit about me? It's really fuckin' insulting!"

"Fine, I'm sorry. Just tell me already."

Trevor got a smug grin. "Well, I _could_ just tell you, but where would be the fun in that?"

_How clever..._ Sonia couldn't help laughing. "I guess you think I deserve that."

He ignored the remark, stretching a hand out to her. "I figure out who you really are, what I get out of it is my choice. Deal?"

Sonia didn't hesitate, slapping her hand in his to seal the agreement. "Deal." _I got this. No way he's gonna figure it out with hardly anything to go on._ She felt a little relieved, having steered the man where she wanted him. Strangely, it had been a lot easier than she'd thought it'd be. She wondered if she should worry about that.

Trevor brought her hand up, pressing his mouth to the back of her palm. Her skin smelled nice, vaguely of some rose-scented perfume or something. "You know, you're right about one thing. This _is_ gonna be fun..." His eyes flicked up to hers, gleaming and wicked. "For me."

Sonia slipped her hand from his. "You enjoy losing?"

"A lot of people have underestimated me. And they're all dead now, by the way."

She looked amused. "It's not very nice to threaten your 'girlfriend'."_ I really need to stop humoring that; it's only feeding his delusion._

"I'm only pointing out the fact that I always win."

"Then the odds are against you. You're up for a loss."

Trevor offered a smile only a devil could wear. "There's always a way to beat the odds, darling."

* * *

Rick Murphy burst through the door of the trailer he shared with his brother, his blue eyes excited and a broad grin stretched across his battered face. "B! Where you at!? I got epic fuckin' news, bro!"

A towel-clad Brice stepped out of the bathroom, dripping water all over the carpet. He observed the shiner his brother was sporting, along with a split lip and a gash on his forehead, the blood having dried in the wound. "Jesus, what the hell happened to you?"

Rick's brows rose as he took note that he wasn't the only one sporting injuries. Brice had angry, red scratches on his broad chest and bite marks along his collarbone. "Da fuck happened to _you_? You been wrestlin' a mountain lion? You're all fuckin' scratched up and shit."

"In a manner of speakin' - a mountain lion of a woman."

"So, that's where you was at last night? Drillin' some pro?"

"No, just some woman I met at the Yellow Jack." He waved a dismissive hand, his other keeping his towel in place around his waist. "Never mind that. What's this 'epic fuckin' news'?"

"Oh, yeah, yeah. A'ight, so check it, I was hangin' out with a bunch of methheads yesterday and-"

"What the fuck, Rick? They do that shit to your face?"

The younger Murphy put his hands up. "Nah, just listen, bro. They may be fuckin' tweakers, but they know shit...like who's distributin' Philips' crank."

Brice shook his head. "If there's anything I've learned in this business, Rick, it's never trust a junkie for anything, let alone their word."

"This chick I talked to, she's the junkie girlfriend of one of the distributor's dealers. It's legit, B. Just checked it out myself. The distributor's some Polish dude, name's Eli Czarnecki. He's got a house up in Grapeseed. Went there and had a little sit down with him. Well, a forced sit down."

"What do you mean?" he asked, though Brice already had a good idea what he meant.

Rick pointed at his own face. "His dudes did this, roughed me up a little...put guns to my head."

A look of fury came across Brice's face and, unable to control it, he whacked his young sibling across the back of his head. Maybe it would knock some sense into the idiot. "Jesus Christ, Rick! Are you fuckin' insane? You don't approach a guy like that at his goddamn house! You know how paranoid they can get! You could've been killed!"

"Chill, bro! I knew what I was doin'. It all worked out. See, this Czarnecki guy's like the fuckin' don of distributors out here. He's got a network of dealers all over Blaine County and Los Santos, and he's expandin' into Las Venturas. Thing is, he fuckin' hates havin' to work with Philips, 'cause the dude's an unhinged tweaker. Says he's only workin' with him 'cause he's the only one who can make the amount of product Czarnecki needs. He's lookin' for more stable partners, so of course I told him about us. Told him we can mass produce and not only that, but it's high-purity, top-of-the-fuckin'-line crystal. Czarnecki got real interested then, said he wants to see our product."

Brice sat down on the green, plaid couch, running a hand across his shaved head. "When?"

"Now."

The older man shook his head. "Shit, I can't deal with this guy now, Rick. I got a call from Clyde an hour ago, and he wants to meet. I'm due at their apartment over in Harmony in 'bout thirty minutes. He's bringin' me in on one of their club meetings, could mean they want to partner. I gotta be there."

Rick came to stand in front of his brother, crossing his arms about his chest. "Then I'll take our product to Czarnecki."

"No," Brice said, shooting up from his spot on the couch. "Absolutely fuckin' not."

"Come on, B, got the motherfucker interested, didn't I? The hard shit's done. All I gotta do is take the product to Czarnecki, let him test it out, and we got the dude. He ain't gonna turn down superior crystal."

"You've never done this kind of shit before, little bro. You don't know how it works."

Rick sighed. "Then tell me how it works, O' Master of the Drug Trade. We can't pass up that meet with Clyde and his club, like you said, but we can't pass up this chance with a major distributor, either. It's gotta be me on it."

Brice loved Rick. They had been inseparable since the day Rick was born. He was the only person Brice had in the world, ever would have. He'd always protected him, from their abusive parents, from his enemies in the business, from anyone who tried to do him wrong. He hated even thinking about Rick doing this, but he knew he was right. They couldn't pass up on Czarnecki.

Brice put a hand on his brother's shoulder, pushing him down on the couch, then he took a seat beside him. "How much does he know about us?"

"He knows it's just you, me, and our cook."

"Where does he want to meet?"

"Out in the desert somewhere. He text me the coordinates."

Brice shook his head. "You're gonna call him with a new location. A place that's somewhat out in the open..." He snapped his fingers. "In the parkin' lot of that hardware store off the Senora Freeway, that should do. Nobody ever shops there, so it's discreet enough to do business and it's open enough that Czarnecki won't try anything with a road full of potential witnesses. If there's one thing you never do, Rick, it's meet out in the middle of fuckin' nowhere. Now, he's gonna bring backup; they always do whether they say they'll meet with you alone or not. His men are gonna search you for weapons, and they're gonna find a gun on you. It shows them you're serious, and cautious. Those are traits distributors like, makes you less of a liability if you're the careful type. Next, you're gonna give him a pound of the product and he's gonna hand it over to one of his guys. This guy is there solely to test out the product, to make sure it is what we say it is. Then Czarnecki's gonna offer a price. It'll be the standard for a pound of crystal, ten-thousand. You're gonna remind him that this ain't the standard shit and up the price to seventeen. You're testin' him, seein' how high he's willin' to pay. He'll probably laugh in your face and make a counter-offer of fourteen. Take it. That's the price we want."

Rick nodded. "Sounds easy."

"Yeah, it sounds easy, but any number of things could go wrong. That's why I don't fuckin' like this."

"I got this, B. No sweat. I mean, they did this shit to my face, and I took it laughin' in theirs. You ain't always gotta protect me, bro. I'm a grown-ass man, for Christ's sake; I can handle shit."

Brice sighed. "Sometimes I forget that you ain't a kid anymore. I look at you and I see the boy Pop used to beat on." He grabbed his brother's left arm and held it up in front of Rick's face, showing him the six inch scar that cut vertically from wrist to forearm. Brice remembered that day clearly still, when their father got angry at seven-year-old Rick for spilling his bowl of cereal on his favorite chair. Pop had hit him so hard Rick careened into a window, his arm breaking through the glass. Brice remembered how his little brother had _screamed_ as the blood gushed out of his arm, the way his little face paled, their mother screaming at their father to call 911 as she tried to stop the bleeding with a towel. He'd never seen so much blood; he'd never been so scared. "This almost killed you," Brice went on. "_He_ almost killed you, and I didn't do a damn thing but stand there."

"You fuckin' did do somethin'," Rick replied, frowning. "You got rid of them, you put an end to all that shit, and who knows what would've happened to us if you hadn't. Did you forget that? Did you think I did?"

"No, but that day you almost died changed me. You're the only person I love in this world, Rick. I'm always gonna wanna protect you whether you're thirty or eighty. Get used to it."

"A'ight, a'ight. But you _are_ agreein' on me takin' care of bidness with Czarnecki?"

Brice reached out, patting him on the face. "Yeah, little bro, I am. Just...be careful, and be cool. You start gettin' fidgety and skittish, they're gonna start gettin' suspicious. If shit looks like it's gonna turn south, you get the fuck out of there, then you call me. You hear?"

"I hear you, B." Both brothers stood from the couch. "I'ma jet, go pick up the product from the cook site. Good luck with them bikers, B."

"Yeah, thanks. You, too." Brice pulled his brother into a long, firm hug.

Rick cleared his throat awkwardly after a few moments. "A'right, bro, that's good. It's gettin' fuckin' weird now."

Brice shoved him away with a laugh. "Asshole."

The younger Murphy grinned and proceeded through the trailer door. Brice went into the bedroom to dress, then text Clyde to let him know he was on his way to the bikers' apartment.

The small, inconspicuous trailer park Brice and his brother lived in was on the western edge of the Grand Senora Desert, about fifteen minutes from Harmony. When Brice arrived at the motel-turned-apartments, he found Clyde waiting for him outside. Brice parked his van in a space, then exited the vehicle.

"Your guy get bored watchin' me?" he greeted Clyde.

"Huh?" the biker responded.

Brice smiled. "I assumed you were the one who sent him to keep tabs on me. He wasn't very subtle, following me far too closely, parking in plain sight outside across from my trailer. He kept it up for two days, then stopped. Did he figure out I knew he was there, or did you call him off?"

Clyde made a face. "It was necessary, had to make sure you weren't no cop or fed. He gave me what I needed and I called him off."

Brice nodded. "I get it. Gotta be careful in this line of work."

"That you do," Clyde agreed, then jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "They're waitin' inside. Come on."

The hierarchy of the Devil's Sons greeted Brice with suspicious looks when he entered the apartment behind the club's president. Brice had expected this; these men didn't know him, had no reason to trust him. They were at least hearing him out, however, and he knew he had Jim to thank for that. He wouldn't have gotten this far without the man.

Clyde started off by introducing Brice to the club's acting vice president, Dave, a man of stunted growth and with a mean, bulldog face. Clyde tossed an arm about his shoulders, stooping to do so. "Dave here's been replacing Jim since he got thrown in the slammer. Churlish little bastard, but you learn to love him."

At this, Dave cocked a fist and slammed it into Clyde's stomach. "Go fuck yourself."

Clyde gave a breathless laugh. "Got a helluva punch for a midget, too." He moved on, pointing out the only man among them with hair. He also had a pale, haggard face with dark circles under his eyes and he kept fidgeting, his hands shaking. "That's Joseph, our treasurer and the guy who handles our prostitution business."

Brice didn't like the look of Joseph. Having spent many years around drugs and drug addicts, he knew a junkie when he saw one, and a junkie could compromise things. Brice would have to keep an eye on this one in the future, if things went good at this meeting.

Clyde gestured to the next man, possibly the tallest and definitely the youngest among them. The man had that kind of pretty, aristocratic face that would get his ass drilled by the whole prison yard, if he ever ended up in one. "Edward, our road captain. Goes by Prince Edward most of the time."

"Only 'cause you bunch of shitheads force it on me," Edward complained.

"And over here's Parker, our sergeant at arms," Clyde finished, waving a hand at the man lounging back in an arm chair, hands laced behind his bald head.

Brice recognized him as the man who'd been keeping tabs on him. He was a hard man to miss being a good deal sturdier than Clyde and Brice, with biceps like bulging sacks of footballs and thighs like tree trunks. How that chair was holding under his muscular weight was beyond Brice. Even the man's clothes protested against all that muscle, the fabric straining and stretching to contain him.

"Now that that shit's out of the way, let's get down to business," Clyde addressed all of them. "I know we don't usually bring in outsiders to church, but as Jim said to me when I visited him in the pen, things are changin'. Ain't ever heard truer words. Our crew ain't ever been this hard up. We're in the dirt, brothers, but we ain't buried yet." He slapped Brice on the back. "This fella here's got a plan, one he says can rid us of Trevor for good, set us up as _the_ arms-running operation in Blaine County. So, I'm gonna give the floor over to him and let him explain his plan in full. Then we're gonna put it to a vote."

"As you know," Brice took up the cue, stepping forward. "Our mutual enemy is a hard man to kill. Prior to bein' released from prison, I had my brother lookin' into things, gatherin' information about Philips and his operations. The man is always on the move, never in one place for too long. My brother lost track of him numerous times, but he got enough information for us to work on. Trevor's movement is unpredictable, and that's why he's difficult to kill directly. What I'm proposin' to take him down is a simultaneous attack on both sides of his operation. This plan accomplishes two things: it puts him completely out of business so we can move in and it forces him and his crew to make a predictable move. Retaliation. He'll come right for your club, right where we want him...right into a trap he won't get out of alive, 'cause we'll be prepared for him when that time comes."

"Can already tell this ain't gonna fuckin' work," groused Parker. "We ain't got half the men and half the hardware we once had to pull this off, not since the warehouse got blown to kingdom come."

"Which is why we're also gonna vote on bringin' the Las Venturas charter in on this," Clyde said. "They owe us for helpin' them with the Angels of Death in LV. 'Bout time they paid us due."

"If it's guns you need, I have guns," Brice added. "Three hundred grand worth of heavy firepower; M16s, AKs, a few RPGs and seven cases of grenades. I can arm about twenty of your men. Got it all out in my van as we speak. If your LV charter can supply the hardware, then keep the guns and shit, sell them or somethin'." He smiled. "Consider it a...partnership gift."

"What're you getting out of all this?" Prince Edward asked.

"With Trevor put out to pasture and hopefully in a grave, I can move in and take over the meth trade. I've begun puttin' that in motion already...gettin' my foot in the door, so to speak."

"Alright, so how exactly are we gonna pull this off?" Parker inquired. "You ain't given us no specifics."

"Assumin' you get your Las Venturas charter in on this, we're gonna split some of you into two groups. It'll take place at night. One group will blow the shit out of McKenzie Field. Trevor's got a guy there he works with, accordin' to my brother. Practically lives there, so when the attack takes place, he's sure to see you comin' and he'll inform Trevor about it. It'll lure him and his crew there, and that's when the second group will move in and obliterate his meth lab. It's in Sandy Shores and the town's got a Sheriff's station, so whoever gets that task needs to move quick, in and out before the deputies get there. His cook will probably be there, but that's it. Should be easy to take down one guy."

"And the trap?" asked Parker. "How we gonna finally put this prick in the ground?"

"That's gonna be the tricky part. How much does Philips know 'bout your club? Can he find you?"

"He knew 'bout the warehouse," the big man answered, scratching the side of his nose. "Through his guy at McKenzie Field, but he don't know about any of our places in Harmony. Least, I don't think he does. I 'magine if he did, he woulda done tried to attack us here already."

Brice nodded. "We'll give him a lure then, someone to follow back. Whoever's left over here will set up an ambush point at either Pandemonium or these apartments. Your choice."

"Supposin' he don't take the bait, or kills it before it lures him into the ambush..." Parker pointed out.

Brice shrugged. "Well, assumin' he don't know about your places in Harmony, there's nothin' he can do. He can't retaliate if he don't know where you are. Bastard gets to live another day and we're stuck figurin' out what to do 'bout it. So, let's hope he's as senseless with rage as everyone says he is and follows the bait to take us all down."

"You got a problem in your plan," Edward informed. "Like you said, Trevor's movement is unpredictable. So, let's say he's already at McKenzie Field or his meth lab when all this starts to go down."

Brice considered this. "Any of you good at snipin'?"

"Parker," Clyde answered before the big man could open his mouth. "But he's the only one. LV crew ain't got a sniper. They're mostly just young outlaws in love with spray guns and assault rifles, but they're good."

"Then we'll put Parker on one of the teams. He can scope out the place before the attack. If Trevor's there, good. Snipe the fuck, but we'll still have to take care of his crew and his operations. We don't want any part of him left behind. If he turns out to be at the other location, he's gonna put up one hell of a fight. So, I'd suggest the team there back out of the plan and lure him off to the ambush point instead. The other team can take care of both locations while he's distracted. Then they'll join up at the ambush spot when they've done their damage."

"Glad to see you got a lot of backup plans, as I get the feelin' we're gonna need them," Clyde said.

"I've had a lot of time to think about it in prison. So, you know the ins and outs of the plan. What now?"

"Now me and my brothers are gonna vote." Clyde faced his biker buddies. "So let's see some hands. Who's in favor of Brice's plan and bringin' the LV crew in on it?"

The vote was unanimous.

Brice smiled. _One step closer..._


	7. Chapter 6: Complications

**Chapter Six: Complications**

* * *

Trevor awoke in his unkempt bed with a strong, nagging sense that he'd forgotten to do something. Something important. He lay there for several moments, waiting for the groggy fog in his head to disperse. When it cleared, that 'important something' still refused to surface. It only served to irritate him, and the incessant urgency to release a full bladder wasn't helping matters, either.

After one more failed attempt at recollection, the man released a frustrated noise, ripped the stiff bed sheet away from his naked person, and rolled off the old, stained mattress. He kicked his way through the horde of garbage and dirty laundry on his path to the bathroom. The toilet had broken again several days ago and his reluctant friend and business partner Ron still hadn't gotten around to having it fixed yet, despite assuring him countless times that he would. The man could be reliable more often than not when it came to the business, but he was utterly useless when it came to the domestic shit. That had been his minion Wade's task in the past, though the man hadn't been any better at it than Ron. He spent all of his time at the Vanilla Unicorn down in Los Santos now, running things while Trevor was away. He'd had been reluctant to let the lispy cretin have anything to do with the business, but after ten months of lap dances and having the girls fawn over him to keep him preoccupied and from wandering off or leaving him, Wade had finally grown weary of it. Trevor was forced to put him to work. Shockingly, Wade had a knack for managing the club. Who would've fucking thought?

As for the toilet, it was a rather unholy sight, filled to the brim with a gruesome soup of shit and piss. Having gone nose-blind ages ago to the myriad of odors he lived with, Trevor could only presume it smelled as vile as it looked. There was no way he could drain his lizard in that thing without upsetting the fragile balance and having the foul contents spill over on his bare feet, so he relieved himself in the shower instead. It was hardly ever used for its proper function; might as well turn it into a temporary toilet. He was nothing if not resourceful.

_Goddammit, what was it?_ Trevor wondered again as he shook off the last drops of urine. _What the fuck was I supposed to-_

The thought was interrupted by his cellphone's ringtone sounding off from somewhere in the trailer. Homing in on the digital jingle, Trevor found the phone under the couch where it glowed, lighting up the collection of filth that was crammed into the small space. He pulled it out, peeled off a sticky food wrapper from the face, and saw it was Lester calling him. Then his memory snapped back. He'd asked a favor from the crippled geek the other day and was supposed to call him last night to see if he'd made any headway with it, but he'd gotten distracted by whiskey, crank and a prostitute whose name he'd already forgotten. Or maybe she'd never told him; he couldn't remember. He could barely recall what she looked like.

"You'd better be calling to give me good news, Lester," Trevor answered with, sitting himself on the edge of the couch, which groaned ominously under his weight. It was a miracle the thing withstood any, considering it only had two legs left and the broken pair were propped up on two small towers of paperback romance novels he'd read the shit out of and had finally grown bored with; a guilty pleasure he would take to his grave.

"I looked into that woman as you asked," Lester said. "But you weren't exactly clear about what you wanted me to find."

"Dirt, of course. Shoulda been obvious."

"Well, it seems she's clean as a whistle."

"No, nuh-uh. Nobody's clean," Trevor asserted. "Let alone _as a whistle_."

"Yes, that's exactly why I said it _seems_ she is. Everybody has some kind of red mark on their records; a traffic ticket, bad credit score, mountain of debt, _something_. But her records are so conveniently spotless you could perform surgery on them. Also, you should know that she might have lied to you."

A shot of anger launched through his blood. _Could've sworn I warned that damn woman about the fuckin' lies._ "Oh, did she?" Trevor growled through his teeth. "About?"

"According to what you told me, she said that she wasn't from Vermont. Well, according to her records, she is. Born and raised in Rutland to Randall and Martha Chase. An only child-"

His anger purged with that little revelation. "Yeah, yeah, yeah, I couldn't give a single fuck about who the hell spawned her or whether or not she has any siblings. She lied the first time, about _being_ from Vermont. Fed me a whole line of bullshit when I met her, and trust me, when you got a best friend like Michael you get to know bullshit backwards and forwards. I got the truth out of the woman the second time."

"Well, perhaps you're right about that. In fact, if I may offer my opinion-"

"Oh, please do. I don't know _how_ I get through life without it," Trevor interrupted, absent-mindedly picking at a scab on his face.

"Well, if you don't appreciate my opinion-"

"Out with it, Lester. Don't force me to come over there and roll you out into rush hour traffic. You know how I feel about violencing the handicapped."

"I think her records are the lie," the geek went on. "I've seen conveniently spotless records like this before, and those were Michael's, after he made that deal with Norton."

"Hold on. What exactly are you saying, you think she's in the program?"

"Exactly, but I don't think you're looking at a similar situation as Michael's. The chances of that are slim to nil. This is probably official witness protection. Now, around eighty percent of the people in WITSEC are criminals tied to organized crime syndicates - usually Italian or Russian mob - who've gone state's evidence. So, considering your 'friend's' ridiculously spotless records, her evasiveness and sudden appearance in Sandy Shores - let's face it, normal people don't willingly choose to live in that dried up husk of a town - there is a good probability this is the dirt you're looking for."

Trevor heard the brief, airy burst of Lester's inhaler as he considered what the geek had told him. It made sense, it _fit_; the woman's unwillingness to be candid, skill with a gun, the whole ass-kicker attitude and zero qualms for taking a person's life. Perhaps it also explained why she refused to be intimidated by him. But this wasn't what Trevor wanted to hear. "I ever tell you how much I fuckin' _hate_ those mob types?"

"I'm not surprised, considering you hate anything that draws a pulse."

"But I especially hate the mafia, almost as much as I hate those whiny, ironic-"

"Trevor..." Lester sounded anxious. "Did I just get this woman unduly murdered?"

"Whoa! The fuck, Lest? You think I go around murdering people without a perfectly good reason?"

There was a momentary pause from Lester. Then, "No, but your idea of a 'perfectly good reason' could be anything from 'I was bored' to 'that guy looked at me funny'."

"You wound me! I can be a nice fuckin' guy, ya know, and to _prove_ that I can be a nice fuckin' guy, I'm gonna set your overburdened conscience at ease. I have no intention of killing the woman at the moment. She still owes me a blow job."

"Lucky her," Lester said with a dry tone.

"Well, shit, if I'd known you felt that way-"

"That's not what I was implying and you know it. Now, unless there was something else - pertaining to the actual matter at hand, that is - I have things that need seeing to."

"Oh, right...'_things_'. I get it; those college girls' webcams ain't gonna hack themselves. Appreciate the help...you perv-."

Lester hung up on him. Well, that was just rude and uncalled for.

After Trevor got himself as decent as he was going to get(which involved no more than putting on a dirty outfit he grabbed off the floor), he pocketed his cell and grabbed the car keys on the way out the door. There was a spring in his strut as he made for the Canis Mesa parked along the side of the road; it had been 'bequeathed' to him by some rude asshole who'd given him the finger the other day, a temporary replacement for ol' Betty until he got her back from the body shop. He was in a good mood. Although the solution to the 'mystery' that was Sonia Chase was more than a little disappointing, a prize of his own choosing awaited him. Today was going to be a fun day.

It was a short, five minute drive to the woman's house. Pulling into the driveway, Trevor exited the Mesa, leaving the keys in the ignition and climbed the stairs two at a time. Reaching the door, he proceeded to pound a fist relentlessly upon it.

Some moments later it opened, revealing the woman in all her disturbed-from-sleep glory. Her face appeared annoyed and groggy, eyes dull, dark hair tussled, purple house robe hanging off her haphazardly as if she'd thrown it on in a rush. She was a goddamn mess, but a sight he found alluring. There was nothing more beautiful than a woman fresh out of bed.

"Of course it's you," she greeted, not bothering to conceal her irritation at being disturbed from rest.

"Good morning to you, too, little Miss fuckin' Sunshine," retorted Trevor as he pushed past her into the house without invitation.

"It's the afternoon, actually," Sonia replied, shutting the door behind him. "Not that I'm not thrilled to death to see you, but what do you want?"

Trevor planked down onto the couch, stretching his arms across the back cushions and propping his grimy boots up on the coffee table. "Oooh, nothing much...just dropped by to collect my prize."

"Excuse me?"

"Don't tell me you forgot! We made a deal; I figure you out, I get whatever I want out of it. Well, guess what, sweet tits?" He put his arms out at her, grinning. "I figured you out."

Sonia's rose brows. "Have you?" She smiled in an amused, imperious manner and made a proceeding gesture with a hand. "Go ahead. Tell me what you _think_ you know."

Oh, he couldn't _wait_ to wipe that royal look off her face. "You, my little 'mystery', are a mafiosa in the witness protection program. Ehhh, _ex_-mafiosa." He smirked at the shock that appeared on her face, and took a brief moment to delight in his victory. Then the smirk was gone, replaced by a look of disdain. "And here I was, hoping you'd turn out to be a serial-killing fugitive hiding from the law or at _least_ a battered wife who'd murdered her husband in self-defense and fled here. But mafia? And dis-fuckin'-loyal on top of that? You really disappoint me."

The woman stuck her hands on her hips and glared bullets at him. "Disloyal? How do you figure that?"

"Well, obviously you squealed on the people you worked for. Why else do former mafiosa go into the program?"

Sonia leaned over him, attempting to appear intimidating and completely unaware that the front of her robe fell open, giving him a front row seat to small, bra-clad breasts. "And who says they didn't deserve it?"

"Your tits are disappointing, too," Trevor remarked offhandedly, and yet still found the need to ogle them like he'd never seen breasts before.

The woman glanced down at herself and leaned back from him to pull her robe around her more securely, making a contemptuous noise as the heat of embarrassment washed up her neck. "And I'm sure you have a tiny penis, but let's stick to the real subject," she fired back. "How'd you figure it out, especially when you had nothing to go on?" Her tone held her disdain for the man, but she couldn't deny her curiosity.

Trevor shrugged, finding no need to lie about it. "You gave enough for an old associate of mine to go on. Real whiz with the computers. Poked around in your sterling records. Nobody's _that_ fuckin' clean, so he figured they had to be a lie. He connected it to the program, and it all made sense."

"Well, I can't say I'm surprised you cheated."

"I didn't cheat, princess. As I recall, you never said I couldn't have help."

Sonia scoffed. "You still would've done it, so don't pretend like me saying it would've made any difference."

Trevor laughed at that. "We met, what, a week ago? And you already know me so well. That's nice."

"Cut the crap, Trevor. What do you want?"

"Well, for starters, the whole story. What got you here."

Sonia crossed her arms at her chest. "Why? You've made it clear I'm 'disappointing', so the story doesn't matter."

He set her with a harsh look. "_I_ decide if the story matters, not you. And I've decided I'm curious about the sordid little details. There's no fuckin' point being evasive about it now."

Well, he was right. Her secret was out; she had nothing left to hide. As much as she was concerned by what he could do with the knowledge, there was some part of her that was relieved she didn't have to lie about who she was anymore, at least around him.

Sonia took a seat at the other end of the couch, looked at the man, and began the story. "For fifteen years, I was an enforcer for the Lupo crime family in Las Venturas. I was good at what I did; big earner for the family and never had any real trouble from the cops or feds, either...until my boss fucked up." She shifted on the couch a bit until she fully faced the man, pulling her legs under her.

"He had this plan to clip this rival capo," Sonia continued. "But he didn't want the guy's death connected back to him or the family; in the mafia world, if you're gonna ice a major player, it's gotta go through the Committee first - the heads of all the families - and they _all_ have to agree on it. That wasn't gonna happen, because this guy was well respected. So, my boss hired out a self-employed hit man who'd come recommended by an ally. The guy gave off a bad vibe, asked too many questions and all the wrong ones. He screamed undercover. I made that clear to my boss, but he wouldn't listen, didn't trust my instinct. The night the hit was to go down, the guy asked my boss for one person to back him up since this capo was well protected. He could've chosen anyone-"

"Let me guess, he chose you," Trevor cut in. "He was onto you, right? 'Cause you made it plenty fuckin' obvious that you were onto him."

"I was the _only_ person who even suspected anything. The guy was suave, I'll give him that. While the hit was still in the planning stages, he made friends among the family fast, gained their trust, and having a boss from an allied family vouching for him only worked more in his favor. Anyway, yeah, he chose me. He assured my boss that I wouldn't be connected back to the family because we weren't gonna leave anyone left alive to identify me. At this point, I was a hundred percent certain this asshole was a fed and that, like you said, he was onto me knowing about him. But despite my continued protest, my boss sided with him; I had to back the guy up on the hit."

"_Had_ to? Uh, no, princess, you had options. You coulda A, told them to go fuck themselves or B, you coulda killed your boss or C, you coulda killed that undercover cop or fed or whatever the fuck. We both know it ain't beyond you."

Sonia shook her head. "Killing a mob boss is suicide and killing the undercover or refusing the job would've had me on the outs with the boss and the family. Besides, my boss and I, we had a...complicated relationship."

He grinned. "Oh, so you were fuckin' him. The plot thickens!"

She rolled her eyes. "No, I wasn't fucking him. He..." Sonia paused, grimacing. She hated to admit now, with the amount of contempt she held for her old boss, but she did all the same. "He saved my life; I owed him." She waved a hand, dismissive. "But that's a whole different story. Anyway, the so-called hit man and I were to go to this nightclub on the Strip where our target liked to hang out. It seemed normal enough; there were cars in the parking lot, people hanging around the place, music coming from the club. Typical Friday night. We start heading for the front door and I see this woman standing outside the place, staring at me. Something about the _way_ she was staring...it set off more alarms. Everything felt wrong, like a trap. Before I even knew what I was doing, I pulled my gun on the 'hit man', used him as a shield and a hostage. Half the people that had been standing outside were FIB, pointing their guns at me, demanding I give myself up. It was a set up, just for me. I'm fucking trapped with no way out. I'll die before I go to prison, but I decide then and there that if I'm gonna die, I'm taking one of these motherfuckers with me. But I hear a shot and it ain't from my gun." Sonia reached up to her left shoulder, pulling her robe down an inch or two to reveal the scar there; a round dent of puckered skin. "That bitch who'd been staring shot me. I spent a few days in the hospital, and a few more in jail. Then I got a visit from the feds. They offered me a deal: I help them take down my boss and testify at his trial and I don't go to prison for attempted murder."

"So, you took that deal and ratted out the man who saved your life. _Nice._ Guess that bullet shot off your fuckin' sense of loyalty."

"Yeah," Sonia bristled. "I guess it did. Don't fucking talk to me about loyalty. My boss had it for fifteen years, he had it when he never trusted me or my instinct, he had it when I walked into that fucking shitstorm!" She stopped, taking a breath, collecting herself. "Loyalty is a two way street, Trevor. He had mine, but I never had his. And he put me into that fucking situation. So, I'll be damned if I go to prison for him."

Trevor was unmoved by her little speech. Her boss' lack of trust and loyalty to her wasn't the issue here. It was fear; he'd seen it flash in her eyes at the mention of prison. She was just lying to herself. "Is that what you tell yourself so you'll sleep better at night? Pathetic."

The woman's dark, smoldering eyes bore into his. "Fuck off. I ain't the one in a six by eight cell. I sleep just fine."

"Right, sure, and I suppose you're always this defensive, too."

"I am when I'm being judged by some deranged fucking stronz' who has no right to judge anyone. Where do you get off, anyway?"

Trevor gave her a slow, leering once-over, pausing to stare at the small swell of a breast peeking out of her robe. "Mmm, well, I know where I'd _like_ to get off. In you, all over you; both would be ideal."

She rolled her eyes. "Jesus God, do you ever think about anything other than sex?"

"Of course I do, but trust me, sweetheart, you don't wanna know about the other things I think about. Now that's enough about that. Time to discuss what I'm getting out of this, assuming you know how to keep your word and won't try to back out of our deal. Not that you have a choice or anything, but it'd be nice to know you got at least one virtue going for you."

"We can't all be as 'perfect' as you, Trevor. So, what do you want from me?"

He smiled. "What I want is simple, butterfly. You."

Sonia stared at him, not quite sure what he meant, but hoping it wasn't what she thought. "...What does that even mean?"

"Exactly what it sounds like. _I want you_. Do I gotta fuckin' spell it out?"

"Yes. What do you want me _for_?"

Trevor shrugged. "Whatever I decide. Also, whenever."

"So, in other words, I'm your slave?"

"Well, shit, princess, if you're gonna put it like _that_..." He laughed, a truly evil sound. "Yup, that's exactly what you are."

Before the woman could respond, Trevor's pants sounded off with some annoying, digital jingle. He leaned further back into the couch and lifted his hips a little to dig the device out of a pocket, seeing Ron's name and number on the little screen. Trevor made a face and answered, "What now, Ron? I'm in the middle of something, so it better be fuckin' important."

"We've got a big problem, boss," Ron responded, sounding his usual tense self. "You know how Czarnecki's guy was supposed to come pick up the crank today?"

Trevor made an impatient noise. "So? Get to the fuckin' point!"

"Well, he did and we got paid, but...he-he also informed me that Czarnecki no longer wants to do business with us."

"You think I give a single fuck about what he wants? We got a contract, he agreed to it, so he ain't getting out of it unless he's fuckin' dead. You call that disrespectful prick and remind him of that, or _I'm_ gonna have to pay him a little visit and remind him myself."

"I did, Trevor. He won't listen to sense. There's new product on the market, better than what Chef cooks. Czarnecki's dealers are already out selling it. And the methheads are already talking about it, claiming they're getting a longer, better high off of it. It's selling fast and at twice the price, and it ain't even been out on the street that long. A couple of days."

"_What_!?" Trevor shouted in outrage, lurching up from the couch. His free hand clenched into a tight fist, unclenched, then clenched again. "What soon-to-be dead cunt is manufacturing this shit!?"

"I-I-I don't know, boss. Czarnecki wouldn't give a name, said it would be bad for his business."

"_Fuck_ his fuckin' business! Who does this bastard think he is!? He wouldn't even have a fuckin' business if it wasn't for me!"

"I know, Trevor. I told him that. I told him he should consider himself lucky to be working with you...uh, _for_ you, that you're the best in the business, but-"

"Get me a fuckin' name, Ronald, before I come over there and rip your goddamn face off!"

"I-I did. I mean, I tried, I really did, but-"

"But what, you useless turd!? Jesus fuckin' Christ, do I gotta do everything!?"

"It's Czarnecki. When I tried calling him back, he wouldn't answer his phone. I went to his place in Grapeseed, and the house was empty. He skipped town, guess he figured you'd be coming after him. I could-"

"No, Ron, what you're gonna do is prepare yourself for having seven shades of shit beat the fuck out of you once I'm done handling this myself!" Trevor hung up on the man, shoving his phone back in his pocket. He then threw his head back, lifted clenched fists toward the ceiling, and let out a loud, furious shout of "_Fuuuck_!"

"Uh...bad news?" Sonia asked, watching the man steam like a locomotive.

He paced the living room like a caged animal, heaving out angry bursts of breath. "Some brazen cunt decided to waltz into _my_ fuckin' territory, steal _my_ customers and _my_ slimy, traitorous reptile of a distributor!" He lifted his tightly clenched fists up, baring his teeth. "Mm, the goddamn fuckin' _nerve_!"

"I assume this person has equal or better product to provide?"

"What do you fuckin' think!?" snapped Trevor.

"So, what're you planning to do?"

"_We're_ gonna drop in on one of the distributor's dealers," he told her with a malicious look that foretold unpleasant things to come for said dealer. "And extract the name of this manufacturer...from his fuckin' entrails!"

"Why not just confront the distributor, kill two birds with one stone?"

"'Cause the fuck's got two brain cells to rub together, that's why! He skipped town the moment he decided to shit all over our contract. And before you even fuckin' ask, the dealer ain't gonna know where he is, either. That snake will expect me to find him through one of them. He's untouchable...until I get the name of this manufacturer, find him, and deal with him. That fuckin' cunt will come crawling back when he can't get anymore product, and when he does...I'm gonna skin that motherfucker alive! _Nobody screws me and gets to live to tell about it!"_

* * *

Sonia had no idea where the hell they were headed. Given the man's foul mood, she didn't venture to ask for specifics, as she had a feeling it would provoke another tantrum. The first hour of the drive was mostly silent, save for Trevor's sporadic outbursts of profanities as he weaved at unsafe speeds through traffic on the Senora Freeway. Into the second hour, the sun was a sphere of fire sitting upon the western horizon, and Sonia enjoyed a few cigarettes and switched the radio on to some rock station, which the man didn't seem to mind. Some fifteen minutes later, they reached the approach of a small coastal town settled along the right side of the road. On the left was Cluckin' Bell Farms, which consisted of a stretch of farmland, a train depot, and a factory compound where the company's meat was processed and packaged. Sonia hadn't noticed a sign that told them which town they were entering, but it seemed to be Trevor's destination, as he decelerated the Mesa and pulled off into the far right lane.

Sonia reached out to turn the radio volume down. "What town is this?"

"Paleto Bay," the man answered, having finally calmed down some. "Where this bastard lives and _used_ to sell my crank. Pulled off one of my greatest heists here, too." He went on regaling her with that tale in dramatic detail until he braked outside of some house in town and turned off the Mesa's engine.

"Drug dealing, gun running, and bank robbing. You've been a busy man."

"I'm also a skilled pilot, and..." Trevor scooted close, slipping an arm behind her shoulders, his eyes on hers. "A great lover."

Sonia rolled her eyes in a halfhearted manner and shook her head, pushing the passenger door open to get out and gain some space. "Yeah, grow a beard and you'd be the Most Interesting Man in the World."

"I don't need the beard, princess," he said, stepping out of the vehicle.

Sonia looked at the house, observing three vehicles parked in the driveway. "Our guy's got company. Two people, assuming one car is his."

"Fantastic," replied Trevor, reaching into the back of the Mesa and lifting out two shotguns. "I like an audience." He stepped up to her and thrust one of the guns at her. "I got the dealer, you get whoever's left over."

Sonia nodded, taking the firearm and cocking it. "After you, Captain Crazy."

Trevor led the way up the walk and the porch stairs. Reaching the door, the man kicked his way through it with an overzealous shout of "_Knock, knock,_ motherfuckers!"

The three men sitting on the couch, formerly enjoying a TV show, leaped up at the same time, hands going for the guns on their person. Sonia slipped past Trevor through the door as he pumped a round of buckshot into the ceiling, plaster raining down on the floor. His aim whipped around on the drug dealer, a tall man with dark hair, hazel eyes, and a tattoo on his neck. "Ah, ah, ah! Didn't your mothers ever teach you kids not to play with guns?"

"I was too busy fucking yours to listen to mine," the man spat.

"Oh! Fuck you! _Fuck you_, you dead fuckin' cunt!" Trevor seethed through his teeth, his face twisted in fury, eyes bright and tempestuous. He shoved the muzzle of his shotgun at the man's face and squeezed the trigger. His visage burst, splattering Trevor, one of the other guy's and a wall in blood, brain matter, and fragments of skull. The corpse dropped to the carpet, blood pouring out from the shredded meat and bone that had once been a face. "Don't ever disrespect my mother like that!" Trevor blasted away what little was left of the corpse's head. Another round of shot followed immediately after that one, and then another and another. By the time the man's rage had run its course, the body on the floor was so mutilated by all the shot pumped into it that it could hardly be recognized as human.

Sonia stared at the gore-covered, inflamed man, her shotgun still aimed between the other two guys. _Christ, so much for getting a name._

"Jesus, Holy fuck..." one of the men breathed out, staring with wide eyes at the gory remnants of his comrade. His gaze then darted to Trevor and filled with terror as he fumbled for his gun. The man only got it half way out of the front of his pants when Sonia blasted him through the chest. He dropped back on the floor, made a few soft, wet sounds of struggle, then went quiet and still.

Trevor turned to the last guy, who'd gone as pale and still as a corpse, his jaw hanging open in silent horror. "Your horribly dead friend here was slinging crank that ain't mine. You're gonna tell me who the fuck is manufacturing it."

The terrified man shook his head wildly. "I-I don't fucking know! We just backed him up when he was out dealing, made sure nobody tried to double cross him. He never told us shit about the business, not who he works for or where he gets the product; nothing!"

"Don't fuckin' lie to me!" Trevor shouted, poking hard at the man's chest with the muzzle of his shotgun.

"I'm not! I fucking swear to God, man! I'm not lying!"

"Well, you were a real waste of my time then, weren't you?" the madman complained, drawing his firearm up until it was aimed at the guy's face.

The man's eyes went wide and he opened his mouth to plead for his life, but he never got a chance to make a sound. The deafening blast from Trevor's shotgun filled the room, and then the man's body crumpled to the floor, faceless.

Sonia let out a sigh as she lowered her shotgun to her side. "Well, that didn't..." She trailed off, cocking her head, hearing what was undoubtedly sirens. "Bacon."

Trevor rolled his eyes, tossing his arms up in a gesture of vexation. "Of fuckin' course!"

Without wasting another second, he sprinted through the front door, jumped the porch steps, and bolted across the walk, Sonia trying to keep up. By now, the sun was nearly gone, the eastern sky growing dark, and a few stars were already winking to life.

As the pair got in the Mesa, two county Sheriff cruisers hurtled toward them from up the street, light bars flashing red and blue, sirens wailing. Trevor gave the engine life, jerked the shifter into reverse and slammed a foot down on the gas pedal.

"_Stop your vehicle immediately!_" came an authoritative voice through one of the cruiser's loudspeakers.

Trevor whipped the jeep into a one-eighty turn, threw the gear stick into drive, and smashed the gas pedal down again. The Mesa shot off down the street, but the pursuing cruisers already had enough speed going to catch up.

"**_Pull the fuck over, asshole!_**"

"Oh, go fuck yourselves!" Trevor yelled, as if the cops could even hear him.

He made a tight turn onto another street, the vehicle bouncing up over a curb and nearly running down a pedestrian. The Sheriff interceptors sped around the corner in the same reckless manner, not seeming to care that there were innocent civilians about, either.

Sonia leaned out her open window, leveling the shotgun at the closest cruiser's windshield. The first shot penetrated the hood of the car, but the second hit home, shattering the panel of glass. The cruiser swerved about the road erratically, bounced up onto a sidewalk and smashed into a light post.

"One down, one to go!" Sonia shouted, grinning. The grin soon died, however, when Trevor ran out of straight road and was forced to make a quick turn around another corner, the abrupt change of direction nearly throwing the woman from the window. She dropped her shotgun on the street trying to brace herself. "Damn it! A little heads up next time would be nice!"

"Hah! The cocksnots already got a roadblock in place! As if that'll stop me!"

Sonia settled back in her seat to see that the man wasn't lying. Ahead of them, blocking access to the freeway, were two Sheriff cruisers and a van. The deputies stood behind the doors of their vehicles, guns poised to kill. "That didn't take long. You got anything in here that goes 'boom'?"

"Unfortunately no, but never fear, my pet. This jeep's gonna make these piggies go 'squish'!"

Sonia let out a groan and ducked low in her seat as the Mesa hurtled toward the roadblock. She closed her eyes and shielded her face with her hands, waiting for the inevitable gunfire, shattering of glass, screech of metal, the searing pain of bullets penetrating her flesh. _We're gonna die. Jesus God, I'm gonna go out in a hail of gunfire alongside this lunatic._

Bullets rattled into the jeep, the windshield shattered and rained glass down on her, metal screamed, tires squealed, deputies shouted over their loudspeakers, and the sirens continued to wail. Then there was a solid thump that came from the front of the jeep, followed by a pained shout and Trevor's dark laughter. Sonia pulled her hands down from her face to see a deputy staring back at her through the broken windshield, his fingers digging into the crease at the top of the hood, holding on for dear life. Thoughtless, she reached for the pistol tucked in her jeans, pulled it, aimed it, and put a bullet between the deputy's eyes. His body slipped off the hood and was dragged under the vehicle. Sitting up, Sonia saw that they had passed the roadblock, but were far from in the clear. Coming from up the freeway were four Sheriff cruisers. Behind them were three more, closing in fast.

_No, no, no, no._ Sonia's pulse pounded through her veins, in her chest, her ears as she began to panic. She felt trapped, could already see the prison bars in her mind's eye, surrounding her. No way out. No fucking way out. "Shit, they've got us blocked in." Her voice was nothing more than a weak breath of air. She could hardly breathe, the oxygen seeming too thin to do her lungs any good. Her brain whirled, her stomach knotted. _Not now. Jesus God, don't do this to me now._

"The fuck they do."

Trevor veered off left of the freeway into the woods of the Chiliad wilderness. The terrain was mostly grassy with a few boulders here and there, but it was a mountainous region, the land rising toward the apex of Mount Chiliad. It slowed the jeep down a bit and the deputies were not afraid to follow them off road.

Sonia leaned forward, hands braced on the dashboard, head bowed between her arms as she tried to breathe, tried to quell the panic threatening to turn her into a quivering, sobbing mess. _This was a big fucking mistake. I should've bailed the moment I heard the cops coming._ But oh no, she'd foolishly chosen to ride it out with the maniac instead. For what? To honor their stupid deal? Fuck that. She'd rather be a liar than dead or in prison.

Trevor spared her a glance, brows raising. "The fuck are you doing over there?"

He didn't get an answer.

"_Stop right fucking now, shitheel, or we're going to shoot your tires out!_" a deputy shouted over his loudspeaker.

Sonia rose her head, glancing around, finally registering that they were driving through the woods and were no longer sandwiched between the cops. It helped to tone down her panic some, the air a little easier to take in. _It doesn't matter what you should or shouldn't have done now. You're up to your neck in Shit Creek; accept it and start swimming._

She grabbed Trevor's shotgun where he'd lain it between their seats, hands trembling, and leaned out the window again, pumping buckshot into the grille. "Don't you bastards got a donut shop to raid!? Fuck off!" She steadied her hands and fired again, hitting the windshield dead on this time.

The cruiser veered off wildly, horn blaring, the driving deputy's corpse having collapsed on the steering wheel. The vehicle crashed into a tree, and the horn went silent.

Another cruiser replaced the former, and more were behind it, their red and blue lights flashing across the dark woods. Sonia cocked the shotgun, but the deputy in the passenger seat aimed his own out his window and squeezed the trigger before she got a chance to use hers. She dodged back into her seat as buckshot punched into the side of the jeep, accompanied by a loud, dooming pop that heralded a blown tire. The passenger side sank down a few inches and the jeep swerved a bit before Trevor was able to get it under control.

"Goddammit!" the man growled, gripping the steering wheel so hard his knuckles paled. "Fuckin' melodramatic pricks! All we did was kill one drug dealer and two of his fuckin' bodyguards! They should be _thanking_ us!"

Sonia gazed him. The man had a few bleeding cuts on his face, likely from flying glass. "Did you forget the part where we refused to pull over, killed a few cops and broke through a roadblock?"

"Don't you mean _you_ killed a few cops?"

Sonia frowned. "Do you honestly think that's gonna matter to them? Besides, you ran one of them over."

"He was alive when he bounced up on the hood, until you put a bullet in his face. Not that I'm complaining or anything...just, you know, pointing out it was _you_."

"That's not the fucking point I was trying to make!"

"I don't fuckin' care! _Now stop yelling at me_!"

The Mesa reached a steep incline, slowing far too much for comfort. The cruiser following them also slowed, but not enough to put distance between them. And it only got worse. As soon as the jeep hit the steepest part of the hill, it stalled, the tires spinning in place.

"Fuck it, Trevor. You're never gonna get this thing over a fucking mountain with a flat tire. We gotta bail."

There was some logical part of him that knew she was right, but it was microscopic compared to the Everest-sized mountain of frustration and fury at being told he couldn't do it. So he went on working with the jeep, turning the steering wheel this way and that way in a vain attempt to get it turned at an angle on the hill. "Come on, you piece of shit!"

"_It ain't going to work_!" Sonia tried to get through to him, shoving the passenger door open. _Fuck him if he ain't gonna listen. Run, Sonia, and keep fucking running._

But it seemed the man finally saw sense, as he let out a loud, infuriated growl, snatched the shotgun from her hands, and threw open his door.

Sonia wielded her pistol once again as they both got out, facing the Sheriff cruiser coming to a stop a few feet away. There was no hesitation, the duo opening fire on the deputies, killing them before they could even get out of their vehicles. They turned and were just about to rush their way deeper into the Chiliad wilderness when a noise sounded from the sky, the unmistakeable whir of chopper blades. The police helicopter flew high over the towering pines, spotlight washing across the limbs and ground several yards from where Trevor and Sonia were.

The woman let out a curse and fled up the hill fast as she could. Perhaps a few seconds later, Trevor shot past her like a rocket. How that man could run so fast at his age, she could only guess; perhaps a combination of meth and years of experience fleeing the law.

No matter how fast either one of them could run, the police chopper was getting closer to their location and the deputies were now pursuing on foot. Though Sonia saw no one when she glanced back over a shoulder, she did see the blue and red lights flashing from stationary positions, could hear the sirens of more cruisers joining the search and the deputies themselves, their shouting voices echoing through the wilderness. It was only a matter of time before they caught up.

Then there was a new sound, a deep, long blast that drowned out all other sounds for a moment. The blast of a train's air horn.

Trevor stopped dead in his tracks, head jerking toward the noise. He got this wild-eyed look, a grin stretching across his countenance. "Oooh, I just got an idea!"

Sonia was certain it wasn't a sane idea, but considering she couldn't think of one, she supposed it was better than nothing.

The man took off toward the train tracks not far away, Sonia struggling to keep up with his faster pace. They came to a stop right above where the tracks disappeared into a tunnel and that was when Sonia realized what Trevor's idea was.

"Come on, you gotta be kidding."

The man grinned broadly. "Sooo, I take it you've never jumped onto a moving train before?"

"No, I'm not suicidal," she replied, looking over the edge of the tunnel. It was a long way down, a broken limb waiting to happen.

"Are you kidding me? You've never _lived_ until you've tried this!"

The train blared its horn again, the sound much closer. It was already right under them, as Sonia could feel the vibration of its movement beneath her feet. A moment later and the locomotive screamed out of the tunnel, pulling a train of freight cars, most occupied by cargo containers.

Sonia didn't know where or when she was supposed to jump, but her good pal Trevor was there to figure it out for her. He pressed a hand to the small of her back and with a shout of "Ladies first!" he shoved her over the ledge. Sonia let out a yelp, flailing at thin air. _Oh, God...oh, God...fuck!_ she thought as she watched the fast-moving train seemingly fly up to meet her. She crashed at the bottom of an empty freight car, groaning.

Trevor landed on it only seconds later, teetering, arms pinwheeling for balance. He got none, flopping back on his ass, shotgun flying from his hand as he laughed like a gleeful loon. "Woo! Was that good for you, too?"

Sonia didn't answer. She lay sprawled in the freight car, staring at the night sky zipping by. _Christ...I'm still alive...nothing's broken_. She could feel something gathering in her stomach, bubbling its way up her throat, and then it spewed from her mouth. Laughter. Rolling, wild laughter she couldn't control. She threw her arms toward the sky and let out a loud, emphatic "_I'm alive_!" to which Trevor replied, "Hah! Told you!" That wasn't exactly what she'd meant. Sonia knew she should've been infuriated, considering the man could've killed her, but she found herself simply glad. Glad that she wasn't a gory mess on the train tracks, glad she wasn't being hauled off the jail, glad she hadn't been shot dead by the cops, glad that they had both gotten out of this alive. For the time being, at least.

Sonia remembered something then, something she'd seen on their way into Paleto Bay earlier. She sat up, staring at the man with wide eyes. "Shit, the Cluckin' Bell depot. The train'll-"

"Relaaax," Trevor cut her off, waving away her concern. "It ain't gonna stop there. We're good."

Sonia wasn't so sure about that. "Unless the cops realize we're on this train. They heard it, too. I'm sure they can put two and two together."

He snorted. "Sweetheart, you're giving them way too much credit."

"Maybe, maybe not. I'd just feel a hell of a lot better if we got off this thing as soon as possible." She stared at the red and blue lights glaring through the woods in the distance, the chopper spotlight futilely searching for suspects. _Stay there._

Trevor scooted over beside her and slipped an arm around her shoulders, squeezing her against his side. "You know, you and I make a pretty good team."

Sonia grabbed onto the raised edge of the train car, pulling herself up to her feet. She wished to God he'd stay out of her fucking personal space. She sat on the small platform where the car connected to the one in front of it and shook her head. "A good team gets results. We might have gotten results if you hadn't killed the dealer."

"Fuck him!" Trevor bristled. "Nobody disrespects my mother like that!"

"Fine, I get that, but...Christ, Trevor, you could've gotten your point across by punching him out or blow off a knee cap or something. Did you _have_ to blast his goddamn face off?" Sonia asked as she reached into her pocket for her pack of Redwoods.

"God, give me strength..." the man groaned, leaning his head back against the train car. "If you're gonna fuckin' nag me, at least have the decency to marry me first."

Sonia ignored the remark, frowning when she saw all her cigarettes had gotten smashed, likely when she'd tumbled into the train car. She pitched the pack over the side, then looked at the man. "So, what now?"

"Now I'm thinking...There's this guy Malcolm. The last resort."

"Another dealer?"

"Nah, some hippie fuck, likes his weed and speed. He lives over in that trailer park near the wind farm. Coulda been Ron's older brother in another life. Real paranoid guy, into the conspiracy theories and the foil hats and shit. Anyway, the whackjob ain't gonna know who the manufacturer is, but he'll lead us to a dealer that might."

_Unless he says something about your mother and you blow his fucking face off, too,_ Sonia thought. "Let me talk to the guy."

Trevor narrowed his eyes, suspicious. "Why?"

"Because he knows you, right? If he's as paranoid as you say, he's gonna suspect something. If he thinks any harm'll come to his dealer, he'll lie to protect him. But this guy doesn't know me. I just need a connection, someone I can use to get my foot in the door with him, throw off any suspicion. The name of a friend or something."

"And why should I trust you with this? How do I know you ain't gonna try to screw me over like you did your old boss?"

"Because I wouldn't be here in the first place if you were a hundred percent certain I was going to," Sonia answered. "So you can stop with the bullshit, Trevor. You think I feel guilty about that and you keep bringing this shit up like I was in the wrong because you think it's going to rile me up, but I don't feel guilty."

"Yeah, princess, you do, but go ahead and keep lying to yourself. You're right about one thing, though. I'm not a hundred percent certain you'll screw me over. You know me well enough, and I know you want to live, so I don't got anything to worry about, do I?"

"Don't threaten me, you demented fuck," Sonia bristled.

Trevor laughed. "Just making sure we understand each other; that's very important for blossoming relationships, ya know. Since I'm sure we do understand each other now, I think we can take it to the next level, lay down the foundations. I'm gonna trust you, let you handle this guy. You're gonna tell him you know Wade; he used to buy pot off this hippie freak. Just pretend you're into that horrorcore shit and he'll buy it."

"Oh, you're trusting me. I feel fucking special," retorted Sonia.

"And you can go fuck yourself with that sarcasm!" snapped Trevor, aiming a finger at her. "Jesus Christ, Good Grief, you're just Michael with a fuckin' vagina. The whole witness protection thing, the _disloyalty_, that annoying fuckin' sarcasm. Why didn't I see it before? I bet you're into those stupid vintage movies, too."

"Oh, those old movies - the black and white ones - those are the best! They don't make plot lines like that anymore."

"Gah!" The man threw his hands up in exasperation. "You gotta be fuckin' kidding me!"

Sonia laughed. "I am. I hate movies. Who's Michael, anyway?"

"Besides the fat fuckin' reptile who tried to sell me down the river?" Trevor shrugged. "Best friend."

She looked surprised at that. "Still your best friend? Jesus, what are you, in love with him or something?"

"The fuck? No! Why would you ask me that?"

"Well, you don't seem like the forgiving type to me, but you obviously forgave him, so I figured there must be more to it."

The man let out a sigh. "Look, Mikey's like a fuckin' brother to me, always has been. Our history goes way back, and...I don't fuckin' know, I guess I get why he did it. Alright, story time. See, it was me, him and this guy Brad..."

* * *

By the time Trevor finished telling her the tale, the train had reached the wind farm. They were forced to jump off, as the train didn't make a stop there. That hadn't gone over too well, Sonia having banged a knee on a rock, resulting in a limp and a bloody pant leg.

The pair approached the hippie trailer park, nestled in a tiny valley between the wind farm hills and surrounded by a copse of trees. There were six trailers, all painted up with the bright, whirling, rainbow colors and icons inherent to the psychedelic subculture. A few hippies hung around on porches, smoking pot and listening to Janis Joplin, oblivious to the two non-hippies standing at the approach to the park.

"Which one is it?" Sonia asked.

"Take a guess," Trevor replied, arms folded at his chest.

Sonia looked again, studying the trailers carefully. One of those old-timey oil lanterns sat outside on a table in front of one, its warm glow reflecting off the shiny, crinkled material covering the inside of the windows - what was undoubtedly foil. "Oh, right." She took her gun from her pants and handed it over to the man, then ruffled her hair until she felt it was unkempt enough. That done, she proceeded to rub fiercely at her eyes until they burned.

"What the _hell_ are you doing?" Trevor queried, giving a weird expression.

"Playing the part. How do my eyes look?"

He leaned close - as usual, too close - and looked down into those coal-black eyes surrounded by long, dark lashes. The whites of them were reddened from the rubbing. "Lovely."

"That's not what I meant, you mook. Can I pass for a drug addict in need of a fix?"

"Ehh, it'll do. And you're welcome for the fuckin' _compliment_, by the way."

"Yeah, thanks."

With that, the woman headed off for the trailer with the foil over the windows. At the neighboring trailer, two women in long, colorful boho dresses sat in canvas chairs, drinking beer and swaying in their seats to the music. One was a blonde, her head crowned with a wreath of sunflowers. The other was a redhead, her flame hair parted into two braids. The blonde greeted Sonia as she climbed the steps to the trailer porch, the woman raising her fingers in a peace sign. "Peace, sister!"

Sonia returned the gesture, not wanting to seem rude and raise any suspicion. "Peace, flower child." She then proceeded to knock on the trailer door.

Some moments passed. Sonia could hear movement coming from inside, then the door opened a crack, narrowed eyes peering out at her.

"What?" a gruff voice asked.

Sonia swayed a bit where she stood, scratching at her arms, eyes darting around. "I need...you know, a little something."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

The door started to close. Sonia's hand came out to block it, her expression pleading. "Come on, dude. I need a fucking fix. I'm losing it. You know how it is. He said you were the guy who knows the guy. Give me his name. I'll pay." She bounced on the balls of her feet. "Come on. Please."

"Who said?"

"Wade, man! Come on. Just give me the dude's name. Please. I'm fucking losing it; I feel like I'm gonna die. I got money. I'll...fuck, I'll suck your dick if that's what it takes. Just help me out, man."

The door opened a little more so that Sonia could make the man out. He was perhaps a few years beyond middle-age, short and dumpy with a head full of long, wipsy brown hair that was going white. "Wade? I ain't seen Wade in fuckin' years. How do you know him?"

"We go way back. Met at The Gathering, you know, the-"

"I know what it is," the man cut her off. "Concert full of clown-faced freaks. No offense, but I don't get that shit. So, you want a name?"

Sonia nodded, glancing around, acting as if she expected someone might be listening to them. Then she leaned a bit closer to the man. "I hear there's good shit going around...Grade A crank. I wanna get my hands on some. My normal guy slings that toilet cleaner shit. It ain't working for me anymore, man. Help me out..." She ran her tongue along the underside of her top lip, dropping him a little wink. "And I'll help you out."

The hippie frowned. "Look, I'm a happily married man."

_Thank Jesus for that._ Sonia was worried she was going to have to quickly come up with a Plan B, because she sure as hell wasn't going to blow him. "Come on, man. I'm begging you here. Please. I'll pay, like I said, for a name." She fished out a wad of cash from her back pocket, thumbing through it. "I got sixty dollars. Uh...half of that is yours. I need the rest, for a fix. But, look, you'll get like a referral fee or something from the guy, for referring me to him. That's the way it works, right? It's more business for him. What do you say? Come on."

"Daryl White. He hangs out at Hookies."

"Thank you! God, thank you!" Sonia shoved thirty dollars into the man's hand. "You're a saint! You saved my life! Thank you!"

The hippie frowned. "Yeah, sure. Now get off my fucking porch." He backed up and slammed the door in her face.

Smiling, Sonia turned and started back to where Trevor stood among the small grove of trees, waiting.

"So?" he asked upon her approach.

"Daryl White. We'll find him at Hookies, whatever the hell that is."

The man clapped his hands together enthusiastically, a broad grin on his face. "A name _and_ a location. Baby, you exceeded my expectations!" His hands then grabbed at her shoulders and, before Sonia could even anticipate it was going to happen, his mouth crashed down on top of hers in one mess of a kiss.

Sonia made a surprised noise and shoved him off, glaring. "What-What the _fuck_!?"

"I love you, that's what the fuck! Now, come on, we got a car to jack and a dealer to question!"


	8. Chapter 7: Bonding and Shit

**Chapter Seven: Bonding and Shit**

* * *

The stolen Dominator slowed at the approach to the restaurant, where it nestled against the base of Mount Josiah rising along the right of the highway. The sign on the roof read _Hookies_ in lit up, neon blue letters, a little blue fish beneath them. There were a handful of cars and a couple of trucks in the small, dark parking lot and people were out on the restaurant's veranda, enjoying their dinners.

Trevor pulled the muscle car into the lot and carelessly parked it catercorner, taking up two spaces. He cut the engine off, leaving the keys dangling from the ignition, and pushed his door open. The rumble of traffic off the Great Ocean Highway entered the Dominator's interior, accompanied by the humid, brackish sea breeze and the acrid aroma of cooked fish coming from the restaurant.

"How are we gonna find this guy?" Sonia asked, eying the packed veranda. "We don't even know what he looks like."

Trevor shrugged and grabbed his shotgun. "Call his name, look for a reaction." He moved to get out of the car, but Sonia stalled him, a hand on his arm.

"Aren't you forgetting something?"

A brow rose. "Uhh, no."

"My gun."

"Oooh, oh, oh, oh. You want your gun back."

"Yeah..." said Sonia, releasing his arm and holding her hand out for the pistol.

"Well, maybe if you ask the _proper_ way, I'll let you have it."

She puffed out a sigh. "May I please have my gun?"

"May I please have my gun, _what_?"

"_Trevor_." It was an answer as much as it was a warning that she was growing impatient with his nonsense.

He shook his head, tsking. "Now that ain't how you address your owner. You refer to me as Master...or Sexy Stallion. Either one; I ain't picky."

Sonia was tempted to tell him to go fuck himself, but that would accomplish nothing toward getting her gun back. _Just humor him and get it over with. You've done a lot worse to get what you want._ "May I please have my gun, _Master_?" The word left a bitter taste in her mouth, but calling him the other name he'd suggested would've made her vomit. Probably.

Trevor smiled. "Much better, my pet. Need to work on the sincerity, but it's a step in the right direction." He pulled her pistol from the waist of his pants and handed it over.

She half expected him not to. _At least he keeps his word._

They exited the car and started for the veranda. It was alive with chatter and light laughter, the patrons so immersed in dinner and conversation that they did not notice the armed duo standing in the entrance.

"I'll go check inside," Sonia said to the man, then headed into the building, tucking her gun away so as not to risk drawing unnecessary attention and causing panic.

The restaurant's interior was decorated in a seaside theme; rope fishing nets strung with seashells and fake starfish hung from the walls, an enormous marlin was displayed along the back wall, flanked by a small rusty anchor and a ship's helm wheel, and in the midst of the dining area there was a large, cloudy, octagonal lobster tank, the bound crustaceans all huddled together at the bottom with nothing to do but wait for their inevitable end. Sonia felt an instance of pity for the imprisoned things before returning her attention to the patrons.

Every table in the restaurant was occupied, and the sound of chitchat and clattering silverware filled her ears like static. Customers came and went to refill their plates or their beverages at the crowded buffet line, and others came in and out of the bathrooms situated in the far right corner.

Sonia had her work cut out for her, so she got to it, moving from table to table, asking for Daryl White and getting strange looks in the process. She only got through four tables when she heard a commotion coming from outside; startled shouts and screams accompanied by Trevor's loud voice, demanding Daryl fuckin' White to present himself.

One of the restaurant's staff workers hurried to the open front door to see what all the ruckus was about. Then the man threw a wide-eyed glance over a shoulder and addressed a co-worker across the room. "Hey, call the cops! That nutjob out there's got a fucking shotgun!" Unsurprisingly, his shout drew even more attention, every patron in the restaurant turning worried eyes toward the front door where all the shouting came from. The clattering silverware and chatter among the room were displaced by an uneasy, collective murmur of voices. Sonia could sense the tension gathering; that moment before everything went from normal to panic-driven shitstorm. She needed to address the situation before it could get out of control; the last thing they needed was mass hysteria and the attention of more cops.

Thinking fast, Sonia started over to the worker near the front door, addressing the patrons as she went. "No need for alarm. It's just a misunderstanding. Go back to your meals." When she reached the man, she spoke directly to him. "There's no need to call the cops. The shotgun ain't loaded."

The worker frowned. "How do you know that?"

"Uh..." Sonia threw a glance through the open door. Trevor stood atop an occupied table, wild-eyed and yelling and waving his shotgun around. The couple sitting there clung to each other and gaped at the loon, too frightened to move. "He's...my brother," Sonia continued. "My mentally unwell brother. That shotgun, it's like his version of a security blanket; makes him feel comforted, and I have enough sense to keep it unloaded. No one's in any danger. He's just having..." She offered what she hoped was a reassuring smile. "A little episode."

The man stared at her in astonishment. "Little? He's gone stark raving apeshit!"

"He's harmless, I assure y-"

"I see you trying to hide, Daryl!" Trevor exclaimed, hopping agily off the table and sprinting off across the veranda out of sight, presumably after the now fleeing drug dealer. "Stop running, you shitbag, or I'm gonna blow your fuckin' legs off!"

_Why do I even bother?_ "I've got it under control," Sonia finished with a sigh.

She didn't wait for a response from the staff member, hurrying through the door as fast as her injured knee would allow. She glanced around and spotted the two men bolting along the highway shoulder. Daryl had a good head start on Trevor, and he was as fast as the older man, if not faster. Sonia was surprised Trevor hadn't actually shot his legs off yet.

_I ain't gonna catch up with this knee._ Sonia turned and made a hobbling dash toward the parking lot, trying her best to ignore the throb in the injured joint. She got in the Dominator, twisted the key still dangling from the ignition, and hit the gas as soon as the engine turned over and the shifter was in drive. The tires squealed as the car jerked forward, leaving the lot for the highway. The two men now crested the hill in the road and approached a bridge, the dealer still a few yards ahead of Trevor.

It didn't take long for Sonia to catch up. The moment she headed off Daryl, she stomped the brake pedal, twisting the steering wheel. The Dominator swerved, tires screaming across the asphalt until the car came to a complete stop in Daryl's path. The man didn't have time to stop, colliding with the passenger side door and falling back with a curse.

Sonia threw open her door and got out as the man scrambled to his feet, twisting around to aim her pistol at him over the roof of the car. "You're stuck between a pistol and a shotgun, Daryl. I would consider cooperating if I were you."

"Fuck..." Daryl glanced back to check Trevor's position, and his vision exploded into fragments of bright light as he was batted in the face with the barrel of a shotgun. He let out a pained grunt, stumbling against the side of the car, a hand going up to the bleeding welt now marring his cheek.

"What part of 'stop running' did you not fuckin' understand!?" Trevor shouted at him.

"We should take this elsewhere," Sonia suggested. "Away from the highway at least. The Bacon Squad's gonna be showing up soon."

The man seemed to agree with this, for he prodded Daryl in the chest with his gun and said, "Looks like we're going for a little drive, and you, my drug pushing friend, get to ride in the special seat." Then he glanced at Sonia. "Pop the trunk, sunshine."

"Hold on, man, I'll-" Daryl started to object until Trevor jabbed his shotgun into his ribs, forcing a groan from the man.

"You'll _what_, Daryl? Hm? Suck my boy first? Now that's the kind of cooperation I like! Get on those knees, princess, and start pleasing me."

The dealer paled, shaking his head wildly in horror and holding his hands out in a gesture of resignation. "Alright, alright, I'll ride in the trunk. Anything but _that_!" When he heard the trunk pop open, he moved with all haste to the back of the car, lifted the lid and crawled inside the cramped space. Trevor slammed the lid down with unnecessary force, then moved to the passenger side, opening the door and ducking into the seat.

"Where to?" Sonia asked from behind the steering wheel. "You know this place better than I do."

"Make a U-turn. There's gonna be a dirt road on the right, across from Hookies. Follow it."

That dirt road led through a piece of shoreline and crossed under the highway bridge into Raton Canyon National Park. They soon came to a fork in the road and Trevor directed her to the one that cut left along the bank of a wide, dark creek, the surface capped with white foam where it rushed over rocks and broke against boulders. It was a beautiful area, what little could be seen of it in the darkness. The canyon's dark, craggy cliff faces towered to their right and on the left, beyond the creek, the Chiliad Wilderness spread out with its rolling, grassy base hills, stony cliffs and thick forest of trees.

Sonia followed the dirt path a piece until Trevor pointed her to a spot along the side near the bank of the creek. "Right here'll do."

She pulled off where he'd indicated, turning the engine off.

Daryl's muffled voice arose from the trunk. "Where are we? Let me out! I can't breathe in here!"

_I'm glad I'm not you_, Sonia thought. _I'm even sorry you have to be in there._

The duo stepped out of the Dominator and around to the trunk. Sonia pressed a button on the key fob and as the lid popped open an inch, she took a step back and leveled her pistol at the trunk.

"Out of the trunk, Daryl. Slowly," she demanded.

The man obeyed, pushing the lid open as carefully as he could manage and climbed out with his hands in the air, nervous eyes darting between her and Trevor. "Look, I don't know what's going on. I don't know what you two want from me."

Trevor grabbed the man by the throat and leaned close until he was almost nose to nose with him. "That sounds a lot like bullshit to me, Daryl and I don't like to be bullshitted."

"No, I-I'm n-" Daryl was shoved to his knees before he could finish. Considering what the psychotic had suggested he do on his knees earlier, Daryl blanched and squirmed against the car's back bumper where Trevor crowded him, his eyes moving to the woman with the gun. He silently pleaded with her - surely a woman wouldn't let things get this out of hand - but all he found looking back at him was an apathetic face and blank black eyes.

Trevor leaned over the man and forced his head down against the bottom frame of the trunk, holding him there with one hand. The other rested on the trunk lid. "So, I hear there's some new meth on the market, Daryl. What do you know about that, huh?"

Daryl's face was all sorts of confused. "What the fuck are you talking about, man? It's _your_ fucking product."

"No, fuckwit, it ain't my fuckin' product. You think I'd waste my time hunting you down and putting you under interrogation if it was?"

"You could be doing this to me for shits and giggles for all I fucking know!" Daryl exclaimed. "If it ain't your product, then I don't know whose fucking product it is! All I know is shit's been ass backwards lately. One of Czarnecki's dealers and the dude's junkie girlfriend got iced the other day and word is Czarnecki's gone into hiding. My last pick up was out of the ordinary, too. I usually just get a text with the drop location, but last time I got a text with instructions, to sell the crank at twice the price than we normally sell it for. A new price usually means better product. So I figured your guy must've got a new recipe or something. If Czarnecki's got a new manufacturer, he's keeping it secret. I didn't fucking know about it and I ain't heard shit from any other slingers about it, either. A change like that, word would get around fast."

Sonia believed the man. Considering how quick Czarnecki had gone into hiding, keeping the identity of his new manufacturer a secret made sense; he was protecting himself and his business. "Smart move on Czarnecki's part."

Trevor shot a glare at her. "Whose fuckin' side are you on!?"

Sonia chose to ignore that, focusing her attention on Daryl. "At the risk of asking a stupid question, why did you run if you had no idea about Czarnecki's new manufacturer?"

He jerked a thumb over his shoulder at Trevor, who still hovered over him, keeping him pinned against the ledge of the trunk. "If he comes looking for you, it's not for a good reason and if he catches you...you end up fucking dead, that's why!" There was a heavy tremor of fear in the man's voice. "Czarnecki, that fuck! Never should've dealed for him!" And with that, Daryl began sobbing.

_Great._ Sighing, Sonia knelt down on her uninjured knee near the man and put a hand on his shoulder. "Pull yourself together. If you're honest with us, nothing's going to happen. We can all go home." It was a lie, but if the man believed he would live, he would keep talking.

"I have been honest. I swear on my mother's life!"

"Good. Now you must know someone high up in Czarnecki's business, or at least someone else who does, who can give us the name of this manufacturer."

Daryl shook his head. "I wish I did but I don't. Dealers are at the bottom of the fucking drug trade heirarchy; we don't get the 'privilege' of knowing Czarnecki or any of his high-ranking guys. I've never even met any of them, except the guy who recruited me, and I didn't even know his name."

"Then who sends you all these texts to pick up the product?"

"I don't know. Caller shows up as 'unknown' and the number's withheld. Could be the same dude who recruited me for all I know. You can check my phone if you think I'm lying. It's in my right pocket."

Sonia reached into his pocket and pulled the phone out. Looking through the list of recent incoming calls and texts, she saw that most of them were indeed from an 'unknown' caller with a withheld number. "Well, he's telling the truth." She stood up, dusting dirt from the leg of her jeans. "And that ain't a good thing. Since he doesn't know who the manufacturer is and doesn't know anyone who does, it looks like we're at a dead end. Unless you know another dealer we can question, though I doubt we're gonna get anywhere with them."

"What's with all the negativity, sunshine? We got the cellphone," said Trevor, pointing to it. "And I'm sure you recall that old friend of mine who helps me solve mysteries."

"The computer whiz? So, you're thinking he can find out who the unknown is on this phone? I don't think that's possible without a number to trace."

Trevor shrugged. "Guess we're gonna find out, ain't we?"

"We? Do you really need me along for this? I mean, it's not like you're gonna need an extra gun to deliver a cellphone."

"Careful," Trevor warned. "Slaves don't question their masters. They do what they're fuckin' told, and since it's a long drive down to LS, you're gonna keep me company so I don't get bored and lonely. We'll bond and shit, kill a few hitchhikers on the way for fun."

"Sounds like a great time," she replied with her usual dry tone.

"But first..." Trevor looked down at his victim, an expression on his face that was gleeful as much as it was fiendish. "Time to go night night, Daryl. Permanently."

The man's eyes widened, his face losing color again. "You said you wouldn't kill me if I was honest with you! I've been honest!"

"No, that's what _she_ said, and she don't speak for me."

"And I only said it to keep you talking," Sonia added. "People are much more cooperative if they think they'll be spared once they've been threatened."

Daryl's death was not a clean one. It took only two blows from the trunk lid to crush his skull and make a gory mess of the inside of the trunk and the back end of the car. Sonia used her switchblade to cut the dead man's shirt off, dampened the fabric in the creek, and used it to clean off as much of the evidence on the car's exterior as possible while Trevor dumped the corpse in the water. Sonia suggested he weigh it down to the bottom of the creek with heavy rocks to keep it from being discovered too soon; the water would speed up decomposition and the fish would eat away at the flesh, making it more difficult to tie the murder to them through any forensic evidence that could've been found. There was still the witnesses at the restaurant, but if the body was found months down the line, hopefully they would have forgotten the two people last seen with the victim.

* * *

On the quiet drive down to Los Santos, a realization struck Sonia. She had missed work at the Yellow Jack, and it would have only been her third day on the job. She owed Janet some kind of explanation for her absence. Since she didn't have the woman's personal number, Sonia did a quick search online through her cellphone for the business number at the inn. She had never been a big fan of the internet, but it was handy more often than not.

The line picked up on the third ring, loud music and chatter in the background, and then Janet's drawling voice, "The Yellow Jack Inn. What can I do for you?"

"Janet, it's Sonia."

Janet's voice changed, sounding exasperated, "Where the hell are you? It's half past nine. You were due in five hours ago!"

"I know. I would've called sooner but I didn't have the chance. Something came up; an emergency."

"Uh-huh. Well, it best have been a life or death emergency."

"I'm sorry about this. I'll make it up to you. Promise."

"You got that right, honey. You best be in early tomorrow, and you're gonna be stayin' late, cleanin' up."

Sonia smiled. "Yes, ma'am. I'll see you tomorrow."

With that out of the way, Sonia decided she might as well make good use of the rare silence and try to find out what the hell was going on with Marshal Schmidt. His disconnected cell number was still bothering her; it wasn't right that she couldn't reach him when he was supposed to be the Marshal she was to report to if she made any major changes in her life or needed to do her annual check in.

After another search online, Sonia found a number to the Marshals Service in Las Venturas and dialed it. Given how late it was, she didn't expect anyone to pick up, but after the second toned ring, a feminine voice answered, "United States Marshals Service, how may I direct your call?"

"I'm trying to get in touch with Marshal Brian Schmidt," Sonia answered. "He gave me his business number, but it seems to be out of service?"

"One moment, please."

Sonia grimaced at the hold music coming through the phone. It sounded like something one might hear during a touching moment on an 80's sitcom.

"Who's this Brian Shit?" Trevor asked from the driver's seat, speaking for the first time since they'd left dead Daryl at the bottom of a creek.

"_Schmidt_," Sonia corrected. "And I guess you could say he was my 'custodian' before and during my boss' trial. Kept me alive to testify and set me up with my new life in Sandy Shores."

"Shit's a more suitable name for him, considering he's a government turd."

"He may be a federal employee, but he's a nice guy. They're not all the same, you know."

Trevor snorted in an offended manner. "And what am I, huh? Did you forget that _I_ was the one who defended you against some disrespectful misogynist and took you out on a date?"

Sonia gave him a sideways look, amused. "Are you jealous, Trevor?"

"_Jealous_?" He was downright outraged that she would even dare to think that. "Don't be fuckin' stupid. I ain't jealous of some shitbag fed. I'm just saying, would it really kill you to acknowledge the nice shit I've done for you?"

Sonia simply couldn't help herself. One of these days, she was going to get herself killed. "You want me to tell you how pretty you are, too?"

"Oh, yeah, that's nice. _Mock me_." He glared and pushed a finger at her face. "Fuck you!"

She snickered, swatting his hand away. "Cool off. I was kidding. Look, I ain't gonna acknowledge the thing with that misogynist, because we both know it wasn't about me. But I guess I can at least acknowledge that so-called 'date'. So, yeah, that was nice of you, Trevor. Thanks."

"Yeah, you're fuckin' welcome," he grumbled.

Sonia merely shook her head. She supposed she should've expected it to not be good enough.

Some moments later, the hold music on the phone ceased and that feminine voice returned. "I'm sorry, but Marshal Schmidt is unavailable right now."

"Yeah, I gathered that from the fact his phone is no longer in service. I'm trying to find out why."

"Whom may I ask is calling?"

"Sonia Chase."

"And what is your business with Marshal Schmidt?"

She sighed. "I just told you. I'm trying to find out why his number's been disconnected. I'm supposed to report to him, and I can't do that unless I can get in touch with him."

"One moment, please," the woman replied.

"No, don't put me on-" But it was too late. Once again Sonia was subjected to that sappy looped music as she was put on hold. "Damn it."

"You know, I bet _Mr. Nice Guy's_ 'sleeping with the fishes'," said Trevor. "Your old mafia pals probably got to him, gave him the ol' cement shoes treatment. That's still their trademark, right?"

"Not anymore. Went out of style. Usually it's bullet to the brain and bury the body in some remote location or hack it up and spread the parts across several counties. The latter works best for disposal; the cops never find the identifiable pieces. Anyway, if they got to Brian, it still doesn't explain why his phone's not in service. It's like he intentionally canceled it or changed his number or some-"

The music cut off again, replaced by a masculine voice this time. "Miss Chase?"

"Yeah, I'm trying to get in touch with Brian Schmidt, but his number's disconnected."

"Schmidt is on indefinite leave. I'm glad you called. I was just booking a flight to Los Santos to pay you a visit. I'm Marshal Greg Cooper, Schmidt's replacement; the guy you go to from now on."

"Indefinite leave? Why? And why is his number no longer in service?"

"Procedure, ma'am. Schmidt and his family have been moved to a temporary safe house. They were attacked in their home two days ago. The Marshal was able to take down the attackers. Unfortunately, his son was grievously injured."

Her gut and throat tightened. _Oh, God._ "How?"

"The boy was shot in the head. The doctors did what they could and they've got him in a medically-induced coma. Only time will tell if he makes it or not. We have him guarded around the clock, so he's safe from any potential hits."

"Jesus God..." _What did I do?_ Sonia leaned forward in her seat, head in her hand. "It was them, wasn't it? They went after him to get to me."

"The three men were enforcers for the Pierno family. Schmidt said they'd tried to force your location out of him."

"Piernos are a long-time ally of the Lupo family."

"You can't be surprised your old boss reached out to them."

"No. With him and most of his capos in prison and his crew in shambles, it only makes sense. Hell, he could reach out to his enemies and they would answer. Nothing pulls rival mafiosi together like the chance to take out a rat. What I want to know is how the hell they found Schmidt in the first place. He shouldn't have been that fucking easy to get to."

"We believe one of our officers reached out to Lupo, offered information that might lead to you in exchange for money or drugs, or God only knows what," said Cooper. "We've seized most of Lupo's assets, but we're almost certain there's offshore accounts and such that we can't touch. In any case, it's really the only thing that makes sense. Schmidt is the only one who knows your identities and location, and now me, since I've replaced him. If Lupo had known he'd had that information before, he would've tried getting to him a long time ago. It had to be one of our guys who told Lupo what Schmidt knows."

"Of course," she said with a bitter tone.

"We've got it narrowed down to the deputy Marshals that were on your protection detail during the trial, which Schmidt was head over; they're the only ones who would've known Schmidt's the guy Lupo needs to get to you. We're close to finding out who it is."

"Right, and once you have an idea of who it is, all you need to make the arrest is solid evidence, which, by the sound of your voice, you don't have," Sonia replied.

"Not yet, but we will. Listen, Sonia, you have nothing to worry about. You're safe."

"Yeah, because that's what I'm _really_ fucking worried about!" _Calm down, Sonia. It ain't his fault. It's yours._ She couldn't stop thinking about Schmidt's kid, picturing him in the back of her mind. The Marshal was a proud family man, could never shut the hell up about them and carried photos of them in his wallet, which he'd subjected her to often. A nice family; a beautiful, loving wife, a sweet six year old daughter who loved to dance and play the violin and a brilliant nine year old son who loved math and baseball, just like his dad. _Nine fucking years old. He's just a baby. And I may have gotten him killed._ She felt sick, and when the tears burned at her eyes, it was all she could do to hold them back.

_Fuck this_, she decided right then and there. "I want out of the program."

"We can't protect you if you drop out," Cooper reminded her. "You're making a rash decision. You need to think about this."

"_I want out._ I made the decision to testify, and...it was the wrong one. If I'd known this would happen..." She paused, swallowing to moisten her dried up throat. "Just take me out of the program so I can make sure nothing like this happens again."

"Make sure...? Sonia, whatever you're planning, _that's_ the wrong decision. All you did, it'll all be for nothing if you take matters into your own hands. If they don't kill you, you'll be put in prison for killing them. Brian's kid will have gotten shot for nothing."

"That happened because of me. Just do it, Cooper. The program's voluntary; you can't force me to stay in it."

"I can't officially make you stay in the program, no, but I'll have eyes on you day and night; they'll be watching ever little move you make."

"You can't fucking do that!" she snapped in outrage. "I ain't breaking any laws; I never once admitted that I was gonna take any illegal action. You just assumed it, and that ain't enough."

"Actually, it's perfectly legal to surveil you, as long as it's done on public property. Even if it wasn't legal, what can you do about it? It's just your word against mine, and who's going to believe a criminal's word over an upstanding federal officer's?"

She gripped her cellphone tight, wishing Cooper was there in front of her now so she could smash his face in with it. "Fuck you."

"The ball's in your court, Miss Chase."

Everywhere she turned, she was trapped. If she stayed in the program, she couldn't put an end to the bastards who wanted to put an end to her; she would never get away with it. If she left it, she would be under constant watch, and that meant the people she associated with would be watched, too. Given how effortlessly he broke the law, they'd arrest Trevor in a heartbeat. She didn't need another psychotic nutjob out for her blood. That, and it wasn't right to drag him into her shit. Her only option was to sleep in the bed she'd made for herself. For now, until she could think of something.

"Fine," Sonia said at last, her tone resentful. "You win this one. I'll stay in the program. But just for the record, Cooper, you're a grade A fucking asshole."

The man laughed. "We're all assholes."

"Not Schmidt. If something else happens..."

"It won't. I can't divulge details, but I can tell you he and his family are far away from your mafia friends. They'll never find them."

Sonia didn't reply, ending the call and angrily throwing her cellphone on the dashboard.

It was quiet for perhaps half a minute, and then Trevor spoke. "So, was I right? I was right, wasn't I? It _sounded_ like I was right."

Sonia ignored him. The last thing she needed right now was to be subjected to his bullshit.

"Hey, come on," the man pressed, giving her a little nudge with his elbow. "Talk to me, sunshine. I'm a great listener."

_Yeah_, she wanted to say. _You're great at listening, for no other reason then to collect ammunition, to use any little thing you can against someone. Fuck you._

He frowned at her enduring silence. "Hey, look, I'm just trying to be a friend here, alright?" And when she still refused to speak, he went on angrily, "Yeah, okay, fine. Fuck you too then!"

During the rest of the drive into the city, there was an awkward and tense silence in the car with them, so tangible it may as well have been another passenger. Sonia sat slouched in her seat, staring out the side window and barely acknowledging the urban scenery gliding by as she fingered a twinge of pain in her temple. A headache usually came on when her stress level was high and she'd been deprived of nicotine for too long, and it had been a couple of hours since her last smoke.

She sat up and focused on her surroundings, looking for a convenience store or somewhere she might be able to get some cigs. Fortunately, there were as many convenience and liquor stores as there were Bean Machines in Los Santos, sitting on almost every street corner.

"Hey, stop here," Sonia spoke, pointing to a liquor store off to the left where a few homeless people were hanging out.

"What the fuck for?"

"I need some smokes."

"No, you don't. What you need is to quit that shit. It's bad for you, _and_ it's a disgusting habit."

Sonia could hardly believe what she was hearing. _I've never met anyone so ridiculous._ "This, from the mouth of a _meth addict_. Are you fucking kidding me?"

"No, I'm serious. Meth _user_ and at least ten years your senior, but I could still dance fuckin' circles around you. Best shape of my life."

"If this is the best shape of your life, I'd hate to see what kind of train wreck you were before the meth addiction."

Trevor ignored that. "And here's a little fact for you: there's more chemicals in tobacco than there are in methamphetamine."

"If that's even true - and I'm almost positive you're just talking out of your ass - the chemicals in meth are ten times more potent than ones in tobacco. How many times do you hear about someone dying of a nicotine overdose?"

"Mm, not many," he admitted. "I mean, it's mostly just long, slow, agonzing _cancer_ deaths, and that's a fuck of a lot better, ain't it? Gimme a drug overdose over that shit any day. Last thing you feel is that rush."

"Yeah, it sounds like a nice way to die, feeling that good or feeling nothing at all...unless you don't die. Then you're waking up in a hospital room with tubes stuck in every orifice, so cold you think you'll never be warm again, no memory of how you got there, and scared out of your damn mind."

Trevor gazed at her, brows raised. "Wow. Do I detect a hint of experience? What'd you OD on?" His hand shot up. "No, no, no, don't tell me. Sissy prescription shit, right? Anti-depressants?" He gave her a once-over, making a critical face. "You seem like the type. Probably got a fuckin' shrink, too."

"Nope."

"Nope?"

"_Nope_. Way off the mark on both accounts."

"Oh, really? So, what then?"

"I'll tell you..." said Sonia, giving him a small smirk. "Once I get my smokes."

Trevor released an irked groan. "Good Lord, fine, whatever'll getcha to shut the fuck up about it."

They'd already passed the first liquor store Sonia had pointed out, but there was a gas station nearby. Trevor pulled the Dominator speedily into the parking lot, almost running down a man in the midst of walking to his car.

The fellow leaped back from the vehicle in time, his sack of items flying from his hand and spilling across the asphalt. "Fucking maniac! Who let you out of the mental home!?"

Trevor decided the sidewalk in front of the gas station store would serve as a convenient parking spot, braking the Dominator there in a screech of tires and jerking the gear stick into park.

Sonia pushed her door open and stepped out, ignoring the stares from the people pumping gas into their sports cars and the ones standing in line inside the store.

As she made her way toward the door, Trevor poked his head out the driver's side window. "Hey, sunshine, why don't you get yourself some of those PMS pills while you're in there? Might help clear up those mood swings!"

Sonia showed him a middle finger and a sarcastic smile before she pushed her way through the front doors. Some ten minutes later she walked out with two packs of Redwoods, a lit cig already tucked between her lips and shouts of objection in her wake from the store clerk, outraged with her lighting up in a public building.

She barely had the car door closed before the Dominator whipped out of the parking lot onto the street. They passed through a bit of Rockford Hills, then headed south through the city, the upscale shops and boutiques giving way to the skyscrapers of downtown Los Santos. Sonia gazed up through her open window at the tall structures as she finished off her cigarette and lit another.

"Time to pay up, princess," Trevor said.

Sonia looked confused. "What?"

"Don't act like you forgot. You got your smokes, now I get my answer."

"Oh. It was heroin."

The man glanced at her with an incredulous look. "H? Mm, I'm calling bullshit on that."

She shook her head, then tucked her cig in the corner of her mouth and held her arms out. "That ain't bullshit." The track mark scars were sixteen years old, invisible to the casual observer and only vaguely seen upon closer inspection but they were there, a constant reminder of how weak and trapped she had been in those days, days she never wanted to return to again. She took her cigarette from her mouth, flicking ashes out the window. "ODed three times. First two times really weren't that bad. Woke up in the hospital, went through a psychiatric evaluation because they thought I'd tried to kill myself, then I was released. The third time I should've died. I'd shot up twice in the space of an hour, but it didn't give me the high I needed, so I bought some better shit off this guy. H laced with Fentanyl. That shit's stronger than morphine."

"Ooh, sounds fun!" Trevor said with a broad grin.

"I'd be lying if I said it wasn't. It was paradise. Never had a high like that in my life. It was the epitome of highs; what highs aspire to be."

"And you gave up the best fuckin' highs you could achieve for what? 'Cause of a little 'near-death experience'?" He shook his head in disgust. "You're always disappointing me."

She looked at him, her face serious. "Let me ask you something, Trevor. Why do you do meth? I mean, for you, what's the point of getting high?"

"'Cause it's _fun_."

Sonia shook her head with a small laugh. "No, that's every addict's bullshit reason. If people did drugs just because they were fun, the whole planet would be high as the damn stratosphere. People do drugs because they're miserable when they don't; it's the only thing that makes them feel good."

"Yeah, well, speed ain't the only thing that makes me feel good. Killing people does, too."

"It ain't the same and you know it. Killing people, that's just an adrenaline high. It lasts, what, a few minutes, if that? How long do you ride a meth high? Thirty, forty minutes? Longer if it's good shit? Does killing some poor idiot numb the shit you don't wanna feel and clean out the thoughts you don't wanna think? It ain't the same; it takes something as powerful as H or crank or blow to make that shit stop, and sooner or later, it starts requiring more and more of it to achieve the effect you need. But it doesn't fix anything. No matter how good drugs numb the pain, life's still the same and you're still miserable when it's out of your system. Part of the reason I gave it up is because it's a pointless trap."

"Hold on. Part of the reason? So, what's the other part then?"

"My old boss, I met him that day I ODed on the Fentanyl skag. Collapsed out in front of his car, or so he claimed. I don't remember any of it, just waking up in the hospital with him hovering over me. Apparently I was having trouble breathing, twitching and vomiting, so he called an ambulance. In those days, I was living on the streets, doing whatever I had to do to get by and support my habit. Just a shitty life. Lupo offered me a way out of it, to make something of myself, working for him, but only if I got clean."

"Oh, there it is! The _actual_ reason you gave up the H."

"Both reasons were the actual reasons."

He laughed. "Mm, it must be so nice for you."

"Huh?" she replied, looking confused.

"Being able to lie to yourself, and being able to believe the lie so easily."

She went quiet for some moments, staring out the window at the neighborhood they were passing through, a shitty area that was mainly housing projects and abandoned buildings covered in graffiti. "Imagine you've got a broken leg," she said. "And only one crutch for support. It ain't easy trying to get around that way. That's what going clean is like if you've only got one reason to do it, and one reason ain't enough. You need a lot if you're gonna take even one step in the right direction."

"Jesus fuckin' Christ," the man groused. "You sound like a goddamn rehab counselor; that's exactly the kind of bullshit they poison your mind with."

"How would you know?" Sonia asked, tossing her finished cigarette out the window.

"I met one once," Trevor confessed. "Tried to talk one my loyal customers into seeing the 'error of his ways'. So I shoved the bastard's rehab brochures up his ass and strangled him with his tie. You'd be fuckin' _amazed_ at how much you can cram up someone's asshole."

"I'm fine with not knowing, thank you," she replied, dryly. "Anyway, I was never in rehab. When I agreed to Lupo's offer, he took me to some hotel room where I spent a year as a prisoner. At least that's what it felt like. I was fed and let outside every once in a while with two of his guys watching me so I didn't try to run off. I've been through some shit, but quitting smack cold turkey...one of the hardest things I had to do. Probably wouldn't be able to do it again."

"So, you OD in front of this guy's car, and he just decides he's gonna offer you a job if you get clean? Doesn't make any damn sense to me. People don't do shit like that."

"Well, there's a twist to the story," Sonia admitted. "He knew me. Or really, he knew my parents. First thing he said to me when I woke up in hospital was my name. I was seventeen, had been on the streets for almost two years, so I didn't have any ID on me. I asked how he knew my name, and he'd said we'd met once, a long time ago, when I was kid. Said he knew who I was because I looked exactly like my mother. The folks were gangsters back in their day, headed their own crew. Their operation was mostly traditional rackets - loan-sharking and protection - and a little drug trafficking on the side, weed and coke; nothing really big, though. And they did business with Lupo. Actually, he claimed they were all real good friends. Either I was too young to remember that or the H fried some memories."

Trevor turned the Dominator onto a crummy residential street. The houses that lined it on either side were old and dilapidated, and some looked abandoned. Fences were rotting away and falling apart and rundown cars rusted away in overgrown lawns.

"Could've been lying," he said. "I mean, he's mafia, right? _You_ were mafia, and half the shit that comes out of your mouth is lies."

Sonia didn't take the bait. "I'd considered that a possibility, but he knew things about me. Things only my parents would've known." She shrugged as he braked the car to a full stop. "I guess it's a small world after all."

Sonia looked out the driver's side window at the house they were now parked in front of. It was one of the better-looking ones, painted a seafoam-green. There were a lot of unwelcoming signs on the property and a couple of small radar dishes on the roof. The windows were completely covered with what appeared to be newspaper, and Sonia spotted a few security cameras, one near the front door and another above the garage. "This friend of yours ain't a people person, I see."

"Oh, Lester's a real paranoid, invalid creep, but he makes up for it by being good at what he does." Trevor shoved his door open, got out of the car, and headed up the walkway steps. Sonia wasn't far behind.

The moment they reached the porch, Trevor pounded a fist against the front door, then turned and looked up into the security camera bolted into the corner of the porch roof, reaching out to yank Sonia against his side. "Open up, wheels! It's an old friend and his plus one!"

Some moments passed, and then a click sounded from the front door. Trevor pushed it open and stepped aside, holding the door back for Sonia to go in first. She was rather surprised by the show of chivalry.

The entrance hall was unkempt and dimly lit. Labeled cardboard boxes were crowded up against the walls and a few small TVs showing camera feeds of the outside of the house were pushed into a corner near the front door. The two of them entered a room cluttered with a menagerie of electronic equipment and a man in a wheelchair sat before a desk in the glow of three computer screens, his stubby fingers dancing across his keyboard.

"A little warning would be appreciated the next time you decide to drop by uninvited," the man spoke without looking away from the monitors.

"Is that any way to greet a friend?" Trevor replied, stepping over to his side.

Lester pushed himself back from the desk and stared up at the man through his spectacles. "Only a 'friend' who wants something. I assume that's why you're here. Why else would you pay me an unexpected visit? You could have _called_, you know."

Trevor leaned back against the desk, folding his arms at his chest. "I got a little job for you that requires us to have this face-to-face exchange." He motioned Sonia over, and the woman obeyed, slapping Daryl's cellphone into his outstretched hand.

Lester studied her. "So, this is the woman you had me hunting down information on."

"Oh, where _are_ my manners? Lester, princess. Princess, Lester," Trevor introduced.

Sonia rolled her eyes and held a hand out to Lester. "Sonia Chase. God forbid he should actually call me by my name."

Trevor snorted. "_If_ that's even your name."

Lester took her hand, shaking it gently. "If I may say so, your driver's license photo doesn't do you justice."

"They never do, though, do they?" Sonia replied with a small laugh. "Thanks."

"Hey, whoa, don't be getting any ideas, _Lester the Molester_," said Trevor, putting himself between the two of them. "I got dibs."

"I wouldn't dream of it," the geek replied with a dry tone. "And I'd appreciate it if you'd stop calling me that. I've never molested anyone."

Trevor laughed. "You mean you've never been _convicted_ of molesting anyone, just like I've never been convicted of murder."

Lester made a face. "So, what is it you want from me now? And I hope you intend on repaying me for my services this time."

Trevor dropped the cellphone on the man's lap. "Unknown caller, withheld number. I need to know who it is."

"Child's play. I'll have you a name and an address by morning."

"Morning? That's the best you can do, O' Great Computer Wizard?"

Lester pushed his glasses up his nose. "You'd be amazed how secure mobile provider's servers are nowadays. Though it actually won't take too much time getting inside, going through all the data is another story." He pushed his wheelchair up closer to his desk, then waved Trevor off. "And the longer you delay me, the longer it's going to take."

Trevor dropped his hands on Lester's shoulders, giving them a hearty squeeze. Sonia saw the geek grimace; out of pain or disgust, she couldn't tell. "Yeah, yeah, okay. Just work your geek magic, and call me when you got something. Let's vamos, sunshine."

The front door automatically locked behind them. When they got back to the car, Sonia looked over the roof at the man. "Hey." At his expression of inquiry, she went on, "Sonia Marinelli. That's my real name."

"Uh huh," Trevor replied as he opened his door and ducked into the driver's seat. "Is it? Or is it another lie? I honestly can't tell anymore."

She shrugged as she pulled her door shut. "No reason to lie anymore, is there?"

"How the fuck should I know? People lie for all kinds of reasons, or no reason at all, just 'cause they can."

"Well, I'm not. Kinda glad I don't have to, actually."

"'Have to'?" Trevor scoffed with disdain. "Complete horseshit. You _chose_ to lie. Anything anyone does is a choice, so stop acting like you're a fuckin' victim...unless you wanna become one."

Sonia sighed, throwing her hands up in resignation. "You're right. I chose to lie, and now I'm choosing not to. So, what's the problem?"

He surprised her yet again by not saying anything. The silence was weird and uncomfortable. And it lasted all the way back to Sandy Shores.


	9. Chapter 8: One Step Closer

**Chapter Eight: One Step Closer**

* * *

"I don't like this," Brice complained to his brother as they stood in their modest kitchen, a cold beer in his hand. Rick was leaning against a counter, smoking a cigarette and watching the small TV sitting under the cabinets, where the Los Santos Corkers took on the Vice City Manatees on their home field in a rare mid-morning game. They were waiting for Rick's cellphone to ring. "I would've preferred to meet with Czarnecki in person. Body language and faces say shit that the mouth don't, or won't. If he lies or tries to screw us over, I won't be able to tell over the fuckin' phone."

Rick shrugged, flicking ashes in the sink beside his elbow. "Dude had to lam it, B. At the meet, he said he knew Philips was gonna come after his ass once he severed their partnership. They had like a, uh...a marriage contract goin' on; no other partners, just them two workin' together. That was the deal."

Brice paused in the midst of raising his beer up to his mouth. "So, in other words, he now relies on us to secure his business. Philips was the only one providin' enough crystal to move around where Czarnecki wanted it, and now he wants him dead. We're all Czarnecki's got. That's..." Brice's face lit up with a huge grin. "That's fuckin' perfect!"

Rick glanced at him over a shoulder. "Why you sound so fuckin' surprised, B? Ain't that what you wanted?"

"What I wanted was a good distributor, and him being Philips' distributor was a bonus. But I figured Czarnecki would've had a smaller manufacturer on the side, have product in reserve in case Philips didn't follow through with what he needed." The man shrugged. "I guess not. Czarnecki should've known better than to get into a marriage contract with the guy. It was doomed to end in a messy divorce. There's no loyalty in the drug trade; when something better comes along, you dump the old for the new. So, where'd he go into hidin' at?"

Rick lifted a shoulder. "Who knows? Nobody. 'Cause that's the way Czarnecki wanted it, said he couldn't risk tellin' anyone where he was lammin' it to, not even his own peeps. He got two guys gonna take over shit here, and he gonna instruct them from where he at. Maybe till shit calms down, I don't know."

"Is he that afraid of one man? He's got a crew, he could've taken Philips on."

"He got a couple of well-trained bodyguards and a handful of soldiers. The rest of his crew...they just fuckin' _dealers_, B. What're dealers gonna do? Pelt Philips with eight balls? And the others ain't enough to do damage. I mean, look at the shit you tryin' to do just to put this motherfucker in the ground."

"...Point taken," Brice reluctantly conceded.

On the TV, the Vice City crowd cheered as one of the batting Manatees smashed a ball into far right field and raced to third base without a misplay. "Man, fuck!" Rick complained at the screen. "How you gonna let that fuckin' sea cow hit a triple!?"

Brice took a swig of beer, then shook his head. "I will never understand your love of baseball."

"It's an honorable sport, B. And as American as apple pie."

"You're such a fuckin' patriot," Brice said with a dry tone. "It's also as boring as watchin' mold grow."

"Says the dude who used to play fuckin' _lacrosse_."

"Hey, I was a ki-"

The cellphone interrupted, sounding off with the chorus verse of 2 Chainz and Wiz Khalifa's _We Own It_. Brice pointed at the TV and Rick reached out to turn down the volume. Brice pressed the talk button, then set the phone on speaker.

"Brice here."

"Ah, the elder brother I have heard so much about," replied a deep voice with a vague Polish accent. "I would have liked to meet you in person. Unfortunately-"

"Yeah, Rick told me all about you goin' on the lam." He could hear traffic roaring and people chattering in the background. Wherever Czarnecki was, it was a city. "You in Los Santos?" He didn't really expect to get an answer, but, hell, it was worth a shot.

"I could be. Or I could be in Liberty City, Vice, or perhaps in another country altogether. My location is irrelevant, Brice."

"Not if it effects business."

"My untimely death will effect it much worse. I have two of my best guys running things for me there. You will be dealing with them, but they get their orders from me. Business will not be effected as long as the situation remains what it is now."

"It hardly matters if Philips gets his murderous paws on your two guys."

Czarnecki chuckled. "He won't. I was very careful about what information I fed him during our unstable partnership, and he showed no interest in my employees, aside from the numbers. Not names and faces. He dealt strictly with me; that is how I preferred it. I believe he met a dealer or two by coincidence a while back, but that's of no concern. My dealers are kept out of the loop; all they know is who they work for and when the next product drop is. Me, however, I know everything."

"Of course you do," Brice laughed. "So, all your employees are on a need-to-know basis, and they don't need to know."

"Exactly. If they know nothing, they cannot say anything. I hear ignorance is bliss, it's also a great defense. It protects the business from enemies and the authorities."

"Not to mention it also protects you."

"I would be foolish not to look out for myself as well," said Czarnecki. "Now, let's talk real business, Brice. I assume fourteen Gs was the price to sample your product, and not your set price."

Brice had to smile. The man was smart, but he had a feeling he wasn't going to see what was coming his way. "Yep, that's right. The set price is thirty Gs."

Brice could hear the man choking on something, perhaps his morning coffee, and his smile turned into a wide grin full of teeth. Rick pressed a fist to his mouth to stifle a laugh.

"For a pound of crystal, that's fucking _outrageous_!" Czarnecki complained after he got his sputtering under control. "I won't be taken for a fucking ride!"

"We both know your business now relies on this partnership. Between me and Philips, there ain't a manufacturer out there that can provide the amount of product you need. You could always go crawlin' back to him...assumin' he decides his business is more important than revenge. I wouldn't bet money on it, though."

"You deceptive sonofabitch," Czarnecki shot. "Twenty-five, and that's being generous."

"I'm not a hagglin' guy, Eli. It's my way or the highway." Brice held up his hand and made a circle with his thumb and index finger, a _we got him_ gesture for his brother.

"I'll barely make a profit off of this!"

The desperation in the man's voice was sweet to hear. "Then I suggest you raise the street price, Eli. You're sellin' to fuckin' tweakers, for Christ's sake. They'll give an arm, leg, kidney, and their mother just for a taste of crank. And you know it's the best crank in the county. It's worth the price."

It got quiet on the other side of the cellphone for a stretch, aside from the traffic and chatter that could still be heard in the background. "Fine, you bastard," Czarnecki agreed at last. "Thirty."

"You're a smart man."

"A smarter man would've told you to go fuck yourself. I want thirty pounds of product by the end of next week, Brice. We need to get this crank train moving through the county and Los Santos before my dealers run out of shit to sell."

"Thirty pounds? Not a problem." Brice had confidence in his cook Alice. He would need to get her those assistants, however.

"Good. I will be in touch."

Brice ended the call and looked at his little brother, smiling. "That went well."

"That was cold, B, takin' advantage of the dude like that. Cold, and motherfuckin' gangsta! Man, I wish this had been in person. Woulda loved to see Czarnecki's face. Dude sounded like he was havin' a fuckin' coronary."

Brice laughed as he stepped over to the refrigerator and retrieved two beers. He knocked the caps off using the edge of a counter and the palm of his hand, then handed one of the beverages off to his brother. He held his own up in a salute. "Another step closer, little brother."

Rick grinned and clinked his bottle against Brice's. "Murphy Boys gonna own this county again!"

* * *

The sound of the front door forcing open jolted Sonia from her nap on the couch. Her hand was on her gun where it lay on the coffee table before she even took note of who the intruder was. When she did take note, the woman released a sigh. Of course it was him; it was _always_ him.

"Good, you're awake," said Trevor from where he stood in the midst of the living room, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed and most assuredly high as the damn sky. He threw his arms out wide. "It is a guh-lorious morning out there, sunshine! Let's get shit done!"

Sonia took off the ice pack she'd left on her swollen, bruised knee. Probably not the best idea to have left it in place during her nap, but when she felt the joint, she noticed it was less swollen than it had been earlier and when she bent it, there was only a bit of stiffness. She juggled the pack between her hands, looking up at the man. "What shit?"

"What do you think? Wheels identified that 'unknown' caller. Time to go drop in on the prick."

Sonia tossed the pack aside and pushed herself up from the couch, stretching her arms above her head. Then she started for the bedroom. "Alright, I'm gonna go change first."

Trevor was on her in a heartbeat, hands grabbing at her shoulders to whisk her in the direction of the front door. "Nuh-uh, nope, complete waste of time. You're just gonna get blood on your clothes anyway."

Sonia circled on him, brushing his hands off. "Hey, ease up, alright? At least let me get my gun." She moved around him and picked the pistol up off the coffee table, along with her pack of Redwoods and a lighter.

Closing the front door behind her, Sonia started down the stairs behind Trevor. She saw the man had finally gotten his beloved truck back, the vehicle parked at a careless slant in the dirt driveway.

"Ol' Betty looks nice," she observed. The damage it had taken to the rear during that chase with those biker club prospects had been fixed up, as well as the shattered windshield and the driver's side mirror, and she had a fresh coat of paint, a stunning lobster red. Other than that, she was the same old Bodhi.

Trevor shrugged a shoulder. "I preferred her the way she was, but what're you gonna do?"

"Hey," Sonia said, opening the passenger door to get in. "She's still the same on the inside. That's what counts, right?"

"Of course it counts," he replied as he slid in behind the steering wheel. "But the _outside_ gave her character, too. She had this old dent in the rear, from when I kinda ran over this guy on a moped three times...or it mighta been five. Anyway, that dent went when the back got replaced." He frowned and caressed the dashboard. "Ol' girl lost a part of herself."

Sonia couldn't decide which was stranger, the fact that he thought he only _kinda_ ran over a guy on a moped five times or the fact that he sounded genuinely sad about the dent being gone.

"Look at it this way," she said. "There's plenty of guys out there on mopeds. Find one and ding her up again."

"Bah, you don't get it," Trevor pouted as he started the engine and backed the truck onto the street. "It ain't the same."

Sonia had nothing else to say about it. She certainly wasn't going to console him any more than she had already tried. "So, who's the unknown caller we're after?"

"Guy's name is Marcus Weatherby...Wallaby...uh, Ponsonby..." Trevor gave a _whatever_ wave with a hand. "Something with a 'by'. Lives over at the Parkview trailer park north of Harmony with his mother. Ex-con with an unimpressive rap sheet, and a dead man once I get my hands on him."

"_After_ he talks. If this guy ends up being one of Czarnecki's higher ups, you can't afford to kill him if he insults your mother or something. He's your last shot. He may even know where Czarnecki is."

Trevor frowned. "Don't you think I fuckin' know that? Jesus Christ, what do you take me for, an idiot?"

"Look, I'm just saying-"

"Yeah?" he cut her off. "When I want your opinion, I'll disembowel you and read it from your entrails. Until then, keep your fuckin' mouth shut."

Sonia shot a glare at him. _Who does he think he is?_ "No, I'm _not_ gonna keep my fucking mouth shut. If I gotta listen to your crap, you're gonna listen to mine."

"What exactly is that supposed to mean, 'my crap'?

"The insults and threats, the general rudeness, the mocking, the patronizing...and I'm only scratching the surface."

He grunted. "It ain't _my_ fault you deserve it."

"Deserve it? Why, because I'm trying to be the calm, logical one? Because I'm trying to help? If this is the way you treat people who're just trying to be your friend, it's no wonder you don't got any."

That offended him, if the twisted up look on his face was any indication. "Whoa, whoa, hey, I have friends. I have _plenty_ of friends!"

"_Imaginary_ ones don't count, Trevor," she dismissed.

"Don't get fuckin' cute with me! What do you know, anyway, huh? How many friends do you have? Oh, that's right, _none._ 'Cause you fuckin' sold them all out."

Sonia laughed at his attempt to wound her. "You might've raised a good point...if any of them had been my friends, but they weren't. Oh, they sure as hell pretended to be, but that's what the mafia world is - smoke and mirrors and posturing. They're friends to your face, and then they stab you in the back. I've seen it happen a lot; guys who seem as close as brothers, and then one kills the other over bullshit. Lupo himself got a man sent to prison for the rest of his life, a man he was supposedly real close to, just because the guy had been dating his daughter without his permission."

Trevor made a derisive noise. "And how exactly are you any different from them, considering?"

"I never pretended they were my friends."

"_Except_ when it came to your boss. I mean, you admitted yourself you were loyal to him for a while there...until the threat of prison came along and you chose to plant a knife in his back."

"Just because you're loyal to someone doesn't mean they have to be your friend, too. I was loyal to him because he saved my life, because, at the time, I respected him. But just because he saved my life doesn't give him the right to risk it."

The man gazed at her, looking all sorts of confused. "_Risk_ it? Getting sent to the can is hardly a risk to your life. You woulda got, what, a max of twenty, twenty-five _maybe_? Big fuckin' whoop!"

Sonia said nothing further on the matter. She could've explained it to him, her intense terror of being trapped and caged, but what was the point? He either couldn't understand or wouldn't understand, and she would just open herself up to being mocked and insulted. He could use whatever else he wanted against her, but he wasn't using that.

Thirty minutes later, the Bodhi pulled into the Parkview trailer park and followed the dirt road that wound through it. It ended in an arcing cul-de-sac and Trevor braked the truck to a full stop just before they got to it. There were three trailers situated around the cul-de-sac, all of them crummy and weather-beaten, and each had an address displayed somewhere on the exterior wall facing the road. One had a covered deck attached to the front, where a leashed pit bull lay panting in the mid-morning heat, the shade doing little to cool the animal off. Another had canvas chairs sitting just outside the front door and an old beater of a Tornado sat off to the side, held up on cinder blocks. The last had less of the typical redneck touches. A small, welcoming desert garden on the property, bordered with sandstones, offered a home to a few colorful, ceramic gnomes.

Sonia was guessing the man lived in the one with the pit bull, but she couldn't be certain. "Which one does our guy live in?"

"See those creepy gnomes? That one."

She glanced at him, raising a brow. "The big, bad lunatic's creeped out by a lawn ornament? Wow."

"I'm gonna sodomize you with a lawn ornament if you don't knock off the cheekiness," Trevor threatened.

Sonia grinned. "Anyway, it looks like he ain't home. There's no car out front."

"Then get comfortable. Bastard's gotta come home sooner or later. Keep your eyes peeled for a dark blue Bison."

"You know what he looks like, just in case he doesn't arrive in a Bison or doesn't arrive at all and we gotta go hunting after him?"

Trevor fished his cellphone from a pocket and fingered it for a moment, then he thrust it at her face. Sonia leaned back a bit to focus on the screen. It showed a close-up of a man's drivers license photo. He had to be in his mid to late thirties, had a head full of black hair, brown eyes, and dark beard stubble covered his strong jawline.

"Not a bad-looking guy," she observed.

Trevor shoved the phone back in his pocket, letting out a harsh breath through his nose. "Oh, so you _can_ give compliments. I was beginning to wonder, considering I've given you plenty, but I get nada in return."

_Maybe if you had anything worthy of a compliment..._ "Plenty?" Sonia replied with an incredulous tone. "Try _one_, and it hardly holds any meaning considering you hurl a mountain of insults at me every time we see each other."

"Ah, but you remembered that compliment, didnt'cha? That's one to your zero. So, you _owe_ me one compliment."

"Fine," Sonia conceded, simply to shut him up about it. "One compliment; I can do that. Let me think..."

"_Think_!?" the man snapped in offended outrage. "You shouldn't have to fuckin' think about it!"

"There, that's something."

Trevor gave a wordless, perplexed look.

"For a tough guy who doesn't seem to give a shit, you sure do get your feelings easily hurt," she clarified. "I don't know, it's kind of cute. In a way."

"Oh, I get it, me getting offended _amuses_ you?"

"No, it doesn't amuse me. I just think it's kinda cute that there's something sensitive under all those layers of psychotic lunacy." She grinned big, unable to help herself. "Jesus, Trevor, take a compliment."

He grit his teeth, his face turning a curious shade of red. "You...ahh!...You think you're real fuckin' clever, don't you?"

Sonia shrugged. "No, I gave you a compliment. Don't get mad at me just because it ain't the one you wanted. At least it was the truth. I could've just as easily lied."

"And knowing you, you probably fuckin' _did_."

She threw her hands up, exasperated. "You make absolutely no sense. If you think everything that comes out of my mouth is a lie, then why ask for a compliment in the first place if you know it ain't gonna be the truth?"

The question was greeted with silence.

Sonia turned her head, seeing the look of utter frustration on his face. _Yep, got you with that one, asshat._ "Build a bridge."

"Excuse me?" His voice was thick and grated with irritation.

"You act like me lying to you about who I am is something personal, like I did it _only_ to you, but I've lied to everyone I've met since coming out here. I get why being lied to upsets you, considering what your best friend did to you, and I'm sorry I lied, but you need to build a bridge and get over it."

The man didn't say anything for some moments. His fingers curled tight around the steering wheel, twisting against the cheap, worn leather until it creaked in protest. "Fine," he finally gave, then turned in his seat a bit, pointing a finger at her face, his own holding a fierce, stern expression. "But you ever do it again..." The finger curled in with the others, making a tight, white-knuckled fist. "You're gonna wish those mafia buddies of yours had gotten to you first."

"I already said I wasn't gonna lie anymore. And it works both ways; if you expect me not to lie to you, then I expect you not to lie to me."

Trevor lowered his hand and shrugged a shoulder. "Lying ain't my style. Me, I'm genuine to the fuckin' core."

Maybe he was, at least when it came to himself. The man didn't wear masks to conceal himself or his nature, and he sure as hell wasn't afraid to let the world know how he felt. Sonia kind of liked that about him.

After a stretch of silence, she said, "You know, I don't know much about you aside from the obvious shit, but you know a lot about me." She made a proceeding gesture with a hand. "So, since it looks like we're gonna be here a while, how about some background?"

Given how open and unrestrained Trevor was, Sonia was sure this would eat up some time, and it did, an hour worth. Unsurprisingly, the man, born and raised near the Canadian-American border on the Maple Leaf side, had a psychopath's textbook childhood of neglect, abandonment, and physical and sexual abuse, inflicted upon him by countless 'surrogate' fathers, and had also seen his fair share of foster homes. He had nothing but good things to say of his mother, however, despite the fact that she had done nothing to stop any of the abuse. Sonia sensed that she might have caused a good deal of it herself, and the man simply refused to acknowledge it, or perhaps he'd had it drilled into his head that he deserved it. Given Trevor's fierce and seemingly helpless devotion to her, Sonia decided not to point any of this out to him, not only because it would get her brutally murdered(though that was the greatest motivator to keep her mouth shut), but it would also do him no good. He was lying to himself about her, had been doing it for a long time, long enough for the lie to become the truth and the truth to become the lie. Perhaps it was just easier that way, or perhaps he just needed something, _anything_, to cling to; a life preserver in an endless, roiling sea of pain and horrors. Sometimes it was better to let a person go on believing the lie.

_All I wanted to do was pass the time_, she thought. _Now I feel sorry for him. __Fan-fucking-tastic._

Sonia had caught herself several times before the words 'I'm sorry' could leave her mouth; she doubted he'd appreciate the pity(in fact, she was sure it would only make him angry), but it was there, a little, sharp annoying needle pricking at her heart. More over, she understood, to some degree, what he'd been put through. There was some bitter part of her that resented him, too, for how openly and stoically he could talk about shit like this, as if it hadn't damaged him and made him the volcanic madman he was. She wanted nothing to do with those conflicting feelings. _What good are they?_

After Trevor had gone silent, Sonia sat there in the passenger seat, fidgeting under the burden of discomfort. Annoyed that it wasn't going away on its own, she lit herself a cigarette, hoping it might ease the feeling or at least make her less irritated. As she drew deep on the cancer stick, she could feel those dirt-brown eyes on her, which only made her _more_ uneasy.

"Real quiet over there," Trevor observed. "Cat got your tongue or are you gettin' all fuckin' weird on me now? What exactly did you expect, rainbows and sunshine?"

"Far from it," she answered, flicking ashes out the window, eyes glued on the passenger side mirror. Where the hell was this Marcus guy?

"Then what's with the silence?"

Sonia groaned. "Am I not allowed to reflect on things?"

"Would it really fuckin' kill you to share your thoughts?" he countered.

She had to laugh. "I recall you saying not long ago that if you wanted my opinion, you would disembowel me and read it in my entrails. Considering my entrails are where they're supposed to be, I'm going to assume you don't really want my thoughts."

"You took that seriously? I was only kidding!"

"Yeah, right," she scoffed, drawing on her cigarette again.

And just for that, Trevor reached over and snatched the cig from her fingers, flicking it over the side of the truck.

Sonia rolled her eyes. "Real mature." She stuck her hand in her pocket to pull the pack of Redwoods out, but paused when she caught movement in the side mirror. A truck was rolling up the dirt road, kicking up clouds of desert dust. Bravado Bison, deep blue hue. "Hey, here comes Mr. Weatherby."

Trevor glanced up at the rear view mirror. "It's about goddamn time."

The Bison swept by, Marcus giving them not so much as a glance, and pulled up to the trailer with the cute little garden and its collection of gnomes. Next door, the pit bull began barking. The truck's door opened and the man got out to head inside.

Trevor and Sonia exited the Bodhi and approached the trailer.

"You've never met this guy before, have you?" the woman asked, drawing her pistol from the waist of her pants. "I mean, when he drove by, he didn't even notice us. We weren't exactly out of sight and you ain't exactly forgettable."

"Nope, never had the 'pleasure'. When I've met with Czarnecki, it was only him and two of his strong, silent type goons, and this guy ain't one of them. Probably just recruits and instructs the dealers, like dearly departed Daryl said."

When they reached the front door, Trevor didn't bother with the age-old tradition of knocking. Drawing his own pistol, the man kicked the door in and marched inside like he owned the place and was there to collect past-due rent. Sonia moved in off to his right, aiming her pistol at a wide-eyed Marcus where he sat in front of a TV with a bowl of cereal between his legs, his hands in the air, and milk dribbling down his chin from his gaping mouth.

He closed his mouth, swallowed, then demanded to know, "What the fuck is this? Who're you? What do you want?"

"How the fuck do you _not_ know who I am? And where's-" Trevor started to interrogate, but was interrupted by a voice coming from another room.

"Mark! Marky! What's all that bangin'!? What's goin' on out there!?"

"Nothin', Ma!"

"It ain't nothin'! I heard a _noise_!"

"Just shut up and don't worry about it! Watch your fucking game shows!"

Trevor wasn't having that. No, siree. He stomped over to the man, drew back his arm, and whacked Mark in the face with his pistol. "That ain't the way you speak to the woman who gave birth to you, you disrespectful little shit. _Now say you're sorry_." The words were forced out through his clenched teeth, no more than a whisper, but the murderous expression on his face made them no less frightening than his usual explosions of rage.

Sonia breathed a sigh through her nose. _Of course we had to get the guy who talks back to his mom._

Marcus rubbed a hand against his throbbing cheek, blinking. "What? I-"

Trevor pushed his pistol into the man's left eye. "_Now_, asshole. And you better tell her you love her, too."

"I'm sorry, Ma!" Marcus called out in a panic. "I didn't mean it! I love you!"

"It's okay, Marky. Don't fret about it." The woman's voice grew closer. "You was always prone to those moods."

Marky's mother appeared from the hallway, a brief, thin thing in a floral house robe, pink slippers and hair curlers, pushing a walker. Sonia observed with mild amusement as Trevor yanked his gun behind his back and discreetly worked it into the waist of his pants. She followed suit as the old woman inched her way into the living room, coming to a stop near the man, whom she greeted with a toothless smile. Then she looked down at her pale-faced son. "Why didn't you tell me we had company, Marky?"

Trevor threw on what little charm he possessed. "And why didn't you tell me you had such a lovely sister, _Marky_?"

That got a cackle out of the old lady. She reached up a hand, her frail old bones quivering as she steadied herself on her walker with the other, and gave the man's cheek a pinch. "Well, ain't you sweet! You one o' my boy's friends?"

"Oh, yes, we go waaaay back, don't we, Marky?"

The man didn't answer, too terrified to speak. His mother didn't even take note of his fear, but then when it came to old age, the mind was usually the first thing to go.

"You ain't like them others my boy pals around with. Rude fellers, them. Ain't got nothin' nice to say, and into all sorts o' nasty things; drugs and what have you. I keep tellin' him, they're bad news, a bad influence, but does the boy listen to his mother?" She shot her son a scolding look. "Oh, no. In one ear and out t'other!"

Trevor glared hellfire at Mark. "Only _horrible_ sons don't listen to their mothers."

The man on the couch gulped. "I try to listen; I try to be a good son."

"You ain't trying hard enough," Trevor rumbled, hands fisting at his waist, a vein standing out on his forehead. "Mothers should be treated like queens!"

"None of that now," the old woman rebuked lightly, petting Trevor's arm. "You're gonna have yourself an ulcer you keep lettin' your temper get fired up like that. How 'bout I whip you boys up some cookies, hm?"

Trevor's face brightened. "Cookies? I fuckin' love cookies. Uh, pardon my French."

Sonia hoped he was just trying to get her out of the room. Otherwise, she had no clue what the hell was going on anymore.

"You're gonna love my Snickerdoodles, then," the woman replied as she struggled to get her walker turned around until Trevor lent her a hand. It was downright bizarre how quickly that man had changed in that woman's presence. "Old family recipe, you know. Passed down from my great-great gramma Ester. She was one of eight girls..."

Mother Weatherby(or Wallaby or Ponsonby) went on regaling the man with the exciting tale of Ester's life as he helped her into the kitchen. When they were out of sight, Sonia strode over to Mark and sat down on the coffee table, facing him.

"Where's Czarnecki?"

"Czarnecki...?" The man's eyes widened as he finally put things together and realized what was happening, who that was in the kitchen. Alarmed, he shot up from the couch, spilling his bowl of cereal all over the floor and on Sonia's shoes and pant legs. "Jesus fucking Christ, that psycho's alone in there with my mother!"

Sonia rose with him out of reflex, ignoring her breakfast spattered articles. She put hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down on the couch, taking a seat on the table again. "He ain't gonna do anything to her." She hoped. There was no predicting Trevor, at least when it came to what he could do. "But that could change real quick if you don't answer my question. Where is he?"

"Fuck!" Mark hissed, dropping his head in his hands. "He's gone into hiding." He looked up at her and thrust a finger in the direction of the kitchen, where a duet of laughter sounded. "'Cause he knows that nutcase'll kill him if he finds him."

"Where has he gone?"

"I don't know. He didn't tell anyone where he was going, just that things were changing. That's just the way Czarnecki does shit, keeps everyone on a need-to-know basis. He's got his top two guys running the show here, passes on instructions to them from wherever he's at."

"He must realize he can't hide forever."

Mark laughed. "You think he don't got the money to hide forever? He's probably sipping Piña Coladas and working on his tan on a beach somewhere in the Caribbean, having a good laugh at Trevor's expense."

"While his employees suffer the consequences of his stupidity." There was nothing but disdain in her tone. Sonia hadn't given much personal thought to this Czarnecki fellow, but she was really starting to despise him. He reminded her of Salvatore Lupo. "So, this new manufacturer he's working with, what do you know about him?"

"A while back, when I was helping Czarnecki out with some shit at his old safe house in Grapeseed, this guy just shows up. Young guy, all baggy clothes and ghetto slang. Name was Nick Murphy...or Rick Murphy. Yeah, it was Rick. Claimed he and his brother were making Grade A crystal, the best this county's ever seen. Czarnecki was interested, said he wanted to see the product for himself and set up a meet to do it that same day. That's all I know."

"So, this guy just happened to find Czarnecki's safe house...Czarnecki, who keeps things on the DL?"

Mark shook his head. "The guy said he found it through some dealer's junkie girlfriend. Only a few people knew about the safe house; that's where Czarnecki sometimes did business. His two bodyguards, me, Philips, and a cousin of Czarnecki's who deals for him and has a tweaker girlfriend. He must've said something to her about the safe house. Czarnecki had trusted him to keep his mouth shut." He shrugged and reached down, collecting the overturned bowl and spoon off the floor, sitting them on the coffee table. "He didn't, and now him and his tweaker girl are in a shallow grave somewhere out in the Senora Desert."

There weren't many things that appalled Sonia anymore; she'd seen a lot and had done a lot in her thirty-three years of life, but killing family members? That was right up there with baby and child slaying on her list of Most Revolting Evil Deeds. "Jesus God."

Mark gave her a serious, pleading look. "If Czarnecki finds out I talked to you, I'm gonna meet the same fate."

_You're gonna meet that same fate regardless of whether or not Czarnecki finds out_, she thought.

And as if on cue, the odd couple returned from the kitchen, the man helping the little old lady over to the recliner so she could take a load off.

"Well, look at you two over there all cozy," she said, smiling at Sonia and her son. "He's single, you know, sweetie. The boy needs a nice girl in his life, and I wanna spoil me some grand-babies before my time is up."

"Ma," Mark protested. "Come on."

"Unfortunately for Marky over there," Trevor said. "She's spoken for...by yours truly."

Sonia grimaced and opened her mouth to object, but Mother Weatherby spoke over her.

"You see," she said to her son. "This is what happens when you wait around and waste your time galavantin' with your drug pals. All the good ones get taken."

"Ma, you don't even know her."

"That's neither here nor there. She seems like a lovely woman."

Sonia stood from the coffee table. "Well, it's been nice and all, but we really must be going." She shot Trevor a look. "Right, _dear_? We got that thing we gotta do...with Mark?" _That thing we gotta do_ to _Mark._

"Ehhh...Oh, right! _That_ thing." Trevor marched over to the man, who shrank back against the couch, and grabbed his arm. "Up you get, Marky. We gotta do the thing." He yanked him up and gave him a push toward the door. Sonia grabbed Mark's elbow to keep him from trying anything.

Trevor stopped before Mother Weatherby and reached down to clasp her withered, veined hand. "It was an absolute pleasure, Mrs. Weatherby."

The old lady smiled her toothless smile, patting the top of his hand. "That it was, young man. Do come by again. I'll save you some Snickerdoodles. We can play Scrabble."

"That would be lovely." He offered her a smile, gave her hand a gentle squeeze, then headed for the door, Mark and Sonia behind him.

Sonia sat in the back of the truck with their captive while Trevor drove them out into the desert. It was edging on noon, the sun reaching its highest point in a powder-blue, cloudless sky. Two vultures circled high above the desert, searching for carrion, and a pack of coyotes bounded across the sandy landscape, wrawling and yipping.

"So," Trevor spoke from the driver's seat, raising his voice over the sound of the engine. "What'd we learn from our pal Marky?"

Sonia waggled her gun at Mark's face. "Tell him what you told me."

Mark complied, leaving out no detail. Afterward, Trevor said, "Looks like I'm gonna have to coax another favor out of Lester. Just warning you now, sunshine, I _may_ have to offer you up as repayment."

"Over my dead body."

"Mm, not sure if Lesty's into the necrophilia, but I can arrange for your dead body if he is. And I may even have a little fun with it myself."

Sonia got a revolted look. "Fuck you, you deranged freak."

He threw his head back and guffawed. "I was joking! Mostly."

They reached a construction site where it seemed some business or another was being erected. It must have been the workers' day off, as the site was devoid of human life.

Trevor got out of the truck and grabbed Mark, pulling him from the truck bed. He hit the ground with an _uff!_ sound and the man bent over him, grabbed a bicep, and yanked him up as Sonia hopped off the vehicle. They took Mark into the construction site and to an excavated spot where the foundations of a building were being prepared. A huge square had been dug out in the ground, edged off with wooden boards.

"So...uh," Mark spoke up as he was ushered toward his grave. "What's the thing we gotta do?"

"Well, I'll give you one guess, Marky," said Trevor. "And where we are is a _huge_ fuckin' hint."

"You can't be that oblivious," Sonia added. "In fact, you should've seen this coming."

Horrified, Mark stopped and tried in vain to pull his arm from Trevor's steely grasp. "I told you all I knew!"

"And we appreciate your cooperation," the man assured him. "Unfortunately, you still gotta die. Don't take it personally."

"It's just business," the woman said. "Can't take the risk of you somehow getting word to Czarnecki that Trevor knows who's supplying him now."

"I told you nobody knows where he is! I can't talk! Come on, you don't have to do this!" Mark pleaded, still fighting and trying to pull away.

"And I'm supposed to take your word over Death's assurance of eternal silence? Don't be a silly little turd, Marky. Now in you go!" Trevor shoved him into the dug up spot and Mark crashed down on his hands and knees. He only got half risen from them when Trevor leveled his pistol on him and put a bullet in his brain.

After finding two shovels on site, the pair hopped down into the excavated ground and began digging it a little deeper. Once they had the corpse nice and buried, the construction workers would unknowingly do the rest in making sure the body would never be found, and only Trevor and Sonia would know that this future business site marked Marcus Weatherby's grave.

Trevor whistled a tune while he dug, seeming almost content in the task. That was until he realized something. The little ditty sounding from his puckered lips died off abruptly and he dropped his shovel, hands coming up to grip at his hair as if he meant to rip out what little he had left. "..._Fuck_!"

Sonia gazed at him, brows raised in surprise. "What?"

His scarred face curdled with devastation. "Who's gonna take care of her now?"


	10. Chapter 9: Unwanted Surprises

**Chapter Nine: Unwanted Surprises**

* * *

After dealing with Marcus Weatherby and her long three-to-midnight shift at the Yellow Jack, Sonia was looking forward to home and a home-cooked meal. Janet had been nice enough to drive her to a twenty-four hour grocery store over in Paleto Bay so she could buy the ingredients she needed for the dinner she had in mind, although it became obvious that the woman had only offered her a ride for a chance at interrogating her in a more private setting. Or perhaps in a setting Sonia couldn't escape from.

"Is he doin' things to you?" Janet asked as she drove along the Senora Freeway. Being so late at night and in an area with a light population, there were only a handful of cars and a couple big rigs sharing the road. "Bad things? 'Cause if he is, we can go to the deputies."

Sonia didn't need to ask whom the woman was talking about. She also didn't appreciate the way Janet spoke to her, as if she were some naive child hanging around a potential pedophile. "Aside from annoying me sometimes, no, he ain't doing bad things to me. Why?"

"Just wonderin'. You're my employee, and, well, people don't usually hang 'round him unless they're _forced_ to. Kinda figured that's what the deal was."

"Well, on the topic of deals, I kinda made one with him - don't give me that look, Janet."

"Why would you do a crazy thing like that?"

"Because I thought I already had it in the bag. The deal was he could get whatever he wanted out of me if he could guess who I am," she went on. "He knew next to nothing about me, so I thought, yeah, this is gonna be an easy win. Well, I _lost_, and now here I am, keeping my word." Sonia put up a hand just as Janet opened her mouth. "And yes, I'm aware of the fact that I could've just said 'fuck you' and fled to another country, but it's about principles. I don't got too many of those as it is, and the ones I do got...I've abandoned them before. I don't wanna go down that road again."

"Are a few principles really worth _this_?"

"A person is nothing without principles. Learned that the hard way."

The question came out of left field. "Is he makin' you do...you know, sexual things, then?"

Sonia covered her face with a hand. "Oh, Jesus God...no, Janet. You know, I could've sworn my mother died twenty years ago."

"I'm just tryin' to look out for you, that's all. There ain't enough of that in this world. I don't know what you're involved in with that man, but if you see a way out of it, fuck your principles. You take it, doll. You take it and fuckin' run...before you end up buried out in the desert with all his other victims. Or worse."

Sonia tried not to imagine what could be worse than being dead and buried out in the middle of the desert. "I appreciate the concern, really, but I'm a grown woman and I can look out for myself. I've been doing it since I was fifteen."

Janet looked at her and seemed to want to ask something, but whatever it was, it made her hesitate. Sonia couldn't help but be curious, despite being annoyed by all her other questions. The woman had asked just moments before if she was being forced to get down and dirty with a lunatic psychopath. What in the name of God could make her hesitate now?

"What?" she prompted. "Ask what you're gonna ask. We might as well get all these probing questions out of the way."

The bartender chewed her bottom lip. "I was just wonderin'...was it true, what he said 'bout you the other night? That you killed some biker while he was beggin' for his life?"

Sonia didn't falter with an answer. Even if Janet did tell the deputies, she still had Commander Cain waiting in the wings. "It's true. He shot at me first."

"And you...enjoyed it?"

"No. I didn't feel anything."

"Oh..." Janet shifted uneasily in her seat, fingers curling a little tighter around the steering wheel. "I guess...well, I guess that's better than enjoyin' it."

As Janet drove through Paleto Bay, Sonia felt a bit uneasy herself, recalling the chaos she and Trevor had started there a while back. Perhaps she was just being paranoid, but she felt exposed, like anyone who saw her would recognize her. _I_ am _just being paranoid_, she told herself. _The deputies who'd gotten close enough for a detailed description of us were killed._

Janet found a close spot in the supermarket parking lot, and pulled her Mesa in, setting the shifter in park.

"I won't be long," Sonia assured, pushing the door open. "You need anything?"

The woman shook her head and switched on the radio to some talk station. Sonia shut the door and headed for the supermarket entrance. She bumped into a deputy on his way out, carrying an armload of groceries in brown paper bags. _Oh, fuck._

"Excuse me," they said in unison, trying to work their way around each other, only to end up in that awkward getting-in-each-other's-way shuffle.

With a laugh, the deputy said, "I'll go this way." They finally got around each other, but the man stopped and looked back at her, a wrinkle in his brow. "You know, I feel like I've seen you somewhere before."

_Double fuck!_ Sonia swallowed and tried to charm him in hopes it would distract him away from where he'd seen her before. "I doubt it," she laughed. "I'd remember a handsome man in a uniform."

He smiled a little and stepped closer to her. "You look like someone...but I can't put my finger on it."

_Good. Now just turn around and go to your car_, Sonia thought over and over and hard, as if she could somehow will him to do what she wanted with mere thoughts. If only.

The deputy snapped his fingers, startling her. "I got it! Sophia Cardinale. You know, that old Italian actress from the sixties? You look like her a little...I mean, when she was younger; got those same bedroom eyes. She was great in that movie, _An Italian in Paris_. One of my favorites."

"Oh..." _Whew_. "Never heard of her, but...thanks, I guess."

The deputy tilted his head to the side. "Are you okay, ma'am? You seem a little...jumpy."

Sonia let out a heavy, tired sigh for effect. "Long day at the office. I'm sure you know how it is."

He nodded. "Well, you have a good evenin',_ Sophia_." He grinned and headed off for his civilian car parked in the lot.

Sonia headed inside to do her shopping, shaking off the unease from that close call. She was in and out in fifteen minutes, returning to Janet's car with her groceries. She sat the bags on the back seat.

"What happened?" Janet asked as Sonia slid in on the passenger's side. "I saw you talkin' to that deputy before you went inside. You looked a bit on edge."

Sonia shook her head. "It doesn't concern you. Telling you would thrust you into the middle of something you don't wanna be in the middle of."

Janet stared at her, mouth open. "Jesus Christ."

"Can you drive me home now, please?"

It was a quiet journey back to Sandy Shores. When the woman's Mesa pulled onto the street running along the Alamo Sea, Sonia pointed out the aqua house she called home. As Janet braked to a stop on the side of the road, Sonia observed a familiar red truck parked in her driveway. Its owner was not in sight. She assumed he was inside since he had recently gotten into the annoying habit of inviting himself in.

Janet noticed the vehicle as well and made a face, then turned her head to look at Sonia. "Think 'bout what I said, 'bout gettin' out of whatever you're involved in."

"I'll put it on my to-do list," Sonia dismissed.

She opened the passenger door to get out, but the older woman put a hand on her arm to halt her. "I'm serious, doll. I think you're a good person, deep down. I mean, you helped out Allison when you didn't have to. I don't wanna see somethin' happen to you."

_You couldn't be any more wrong._ Sonia turned to her, giving her a no-nonsense look. "Don't ask me anymore questions about him; don't pry, don't get involved. _You_ actually are a good person and I don't want anything to happen to you."

With that, Sonia stepped out of the vehicle, retrieved her groceries from the back seat of the car, and headed up the stairs as Janet drove off into the night.

She could hear laughter coming from inside the house, what was undoubtedly Trevor's and somebody else's, a woman's. _What the hell?_ She turned the knob, pushed the door open, and stepped inside the stuffy living room.

There the man was, sitting on the couch with another familiar face. It was Marcus Weatherby's mother. The pair were enjoying a game of Scrabble, the board set up on the coffee table, surrounded by a collection of empty beer bottles. She then noticed a lot of luggage and labeled packing boxes stacked up against the wall to the right of the door and her stomach took a tumble. _He didn't..._

"What the hell's going on?" she demanded to know.

Trevor glanced up at her, then gestured to the game board with both hands. "We're playing Scrabble. What's it look like?"

"You know that's not what I meant." Her tone was sharp and unpleasant. "What's she doing here?"

He shrugged and looked down at his letter tiles, pushing them around on their small rack with a finger. "She lives here now." Trevor threw his arms out, grinning. "Surprise! I got you a roommate, just like you always wanted."

The brown paper grocery bags tumbled from Sonia's arm, items spilling out across the carpet. A red flush of anger crept up her neck to her face. _I'm gonna fucking kill him._

"It's so kind of you to let me stay here and be cared for," the old woman added. "What with my Marky just up and joinin' the army to make his mother proud. I was 'fraid I'd end up in one o' them awful nursin' homes." She sniffled and reached into the pocket of her house dress, fishing out a handkerchief. "Oh, goodness me, I'm gettin' worked up again." She pinched her nose with the swatch of white cloth and honked a few times.

Sonia stepped over the scattered groceries to the couch and grabbed Trevor's arm, digging her nails in. _Hard_. "I need a word with you. A lot of them, actually." The words came out through her teeth, and she wasn't waiting for a response, dragging the man from the couch, through the front door, and down the flight of stairs.

In the driveway, she wheeled on him, her face still red and twisted in anger. "You..." Her hands came up at him in a throttling gesture, fighting with all the willpower she possessed to keep from grabbing his damn neck and wringing it. Her fingers curled in, making a pair of tight fists. "_You_...!"

Trevor twirled a hand in a proceeding gesture. "Me...?"

"Of all the...ugh! _Are you out of your goddamned mind_!?"

Trevor opened his mouth to respond, but Sonia spoke over him, throwing her hands in the air. "What am I saying? _Of course_ you're out of your goddamned mind! Nevertheless, she can't stay here!"

"Well, where else is she supposed to go? To one of those fuckin' homes where she'll be mistreated?"

"_You're_ the one who decided to take responsibility over her. Take her back to _your_ place."

"She can't stay there! It's a sty! She needs a clean, comfortable, homey environment!" Trevor thrust a finger at her face. "And_ you're_ gonna provide it. _End of discussion_." He whirled away.

"Oh, no, you fucking don't! The discussion's just getting started!" she yelled, nabbing his elbow and jerking him around. "She already had a place to live! Why the hell did you have to bring her here!?"

"Why do you fuckin' think? _We're_ here, we can look out for her!"

Sonia dropped her face in a hand. "Right. I suppose we can just drop in on her, see that she's doing okay and has what she needs, in between hunting down some mystery meth cook and murdering people. Never mind the fucking _job_ I have when I ain't tangled up in your shit. Jesus God, Trevor, did you even think this through?"

He opened his mouth again. She put up a hand. "Never mind. The fact of the matter is she can't be _properly_ taken care of here."

Trevor loomed over her, a towering menace. "_Nobody_ tells me what I can and can't do!"

"Somebody has to. You actually seem like you care about what happens to her." _In some bizarre, fucked up way, I'm sure_. "So, what's going to happen when we ain't around and she falls down and cracks her head open or breaks a hip? Or if somebody breaks in? A fire? Or, God forbid, she has a heart attack or a stroke?"

"Ron!" he blurted. "Ron can look out for her when we ain't around."

Sonia recalled hearing that name before. "Who the hell is Ron?"

"Friend, business partner. Reliable enough for a pathetic turd."

"And this guy can just drop whatever he's doing for you to look after her?"

"Ron may be a sad sack of shit, but he's loyal as an old dog. He'll do whatever the fuck I tell him to."

_I'm sure that has nothing to do with him more than likely being terrified of you, or there's something wrong with him and he actually likes you._ "Fine, she can stay...on one condition. _You're_ providing her with whatever she needs. I can't do it; I barely got enough money to take care of myself and pay the goddamned bills." She wasn't in any position to say no. The old woman thought she had people to look after her now, nice people, and Sonia didn't have the heart to toss her out. _Goddamn him._

"Yeah, yeah, sure."

Sonia crossed her arms at her chest, that no-nonsense look on her face. "I'm serious."

"Good for you. Did I not just fuckin' agree?"

Shaking her head, Sonia started up the stairs. "Come on, you thoughtless idiot. Since you practically live here too, you might as well finish your game and stay for fucking dinner." She stopped and turned to him with a wry smile. "In fact, why don't you just officially move in, too? You can bring your friend Ron. We'll all be one big happy fucking family."

Trevor's face lit up. "Really? I would love that!"

Sonia sighed and started up the stairs once again. "No, _not_ really. I was being...oh, forget it."

* * *

"Our Las Venturas chapter's in," Clyde said over the phone. "But there's a catch."

"I would expect nothin' less," Brice replied, changing into the far right lane of the freeway. The younger Murphy sat to his right in the 'Pimpmobile's' passenger seat, listening to music on his cellphone through a pair of ear buds and muttering lyrics. "What do they want?" They wanted _something_ from him, of that he was certain; after all, no one did anything without expecting something in return, especially if one happened to be working a criminal enterprise. The question was whether or not he could provide that something.

"The LV crew is tryin' to work out a gun deal with some guys," Clyde explained. "And these guys are tryin' to get into the drug business. Meth, to be precise. Speed's a gold mine in LV; a lot of people usin' it for the boost, to spend more time gamblin' at the casinos, clubbin' and fuckin' pros. Thing is, there ain't a lot of manufacturers out that way. The product that _is_ produced, there ain't enough of it and it's bathtub quality shit. Still makin' them tub cooks rich as fuck, though."

"So, if I'm understandin' this right, these guys wanna do business with me and in exchange they'll give your LV chapter their gun deal. And in exchange for that, the LV chapter'll help me out?"

"A deal for a deal for a deal."

"I'm gonna need a bigger meth lab."

"And a second cook. See, I kinda figured you say that, so I was thinkin' about it. Instead of killin' Philips' cook, why not bring him in, make him work for you? Hell, the guy might not even put up a fight. Might even thank you for the opportunity."

"Definitely worth considerin'. When're your LV pals gettin' in?"

"They're on their way as we speak. Should get here in three days," answered Clyde.

Brice frowned. "Three days? Are they fuckin' walkin' and swimmin' here?"

"Ridin'. It's the biker code, Murph; we go no where without our choppers. They'll be hitchin' a ride on a boat in San Fierro and I'll be meetin' 'em at the marine terminal in LS. Their potential business partners oughta be gettin' in some time today. I'll hit you up when everyone's ready to meet."

"Alright. I'm on my way to prison to pick up a friend gettin' released. He knows a guy who can get us explosives for a good price. I'm gonna need a place to store them until we're ready to plant them."

"I'll set it up. Let you know when it's done."

Brice ended the call and dropped his cellphone in the console between the seats. He reached over and yanked out Rick's left ear bud. "Clyde's biker friends from Las Venturas are in," he said. "On the condition we make a deal with some potential business partners of theirs."

"Potential?" Rick queried. "What kinda deal we talkin' about?"

Brice explained it to him as the guard towers and high security fences of Bolingbroke Pen came into view ahead. Rick frowned, not liking it. "We already partnerin' with dudes we don't know if we can trust. Now we gonna bring in more motherfuckers we don't know? 'Sides, can Alice produce how much they want, plus Czarnecki's supply? She good, but damn, B, she ain't a fuckin' miracle worker."

"She's gonna have help."

Rick shook his head in disagreement. "Those assistants? Bro, you could give her a fuckin' team, and they still ain't gonna be able to produce enough crystal for this. The lab's too small and they're gonna need more equipment."

"I wasn't talkin' about just assistants, and I'm aware of the lab and equipment problem. Clyde suggested we kidnap Philip's cook, and I'm thinkin' that's a real good idea. Alice can teach him her recipe while we're settin' up a second lab. We'll have to borrow a couple of Clyde's guys to watch him. Think you can find a discreet location for the lab?"

"Lot of abandoned places out here, B. Shouldn't be a problem."

Brice pulled into the prison's parking lot. He didn't see the man anywhere outside the gates yet, so Brice found a place to park and wait. He watched the orange-clad convicts in the prison yard, glad he was on the opposite side of the fence. Brice noted a few familiar faces among the prisoners; lean Doug 'Silent Dougie' Matthews, who rarely spoke two words but didn't take shit from anyone. He'd shot his boss six times in a fit of rage after the man had fired him. There was Eduardo Montoya, a member of the Aztecas gang, a lifer in for murdering four rival gang members and the accidental killing of a fifteen-year-old boy.

And then there was Ralph 'T-Bear' Stone. If there was ever a man who didn't belong in prison, it was him. He was a big one, edging on three hundred pounds, and he had a mean face, but he was a kind man, polite and reserved. Clyde's cousin Jim had been the one to give him his Teddy Bear nickname. Ralph had been sent to the can for beating his ex-wife's new husband to death. The sick bastard had been sexually abusing the former spouses' eight-year-old daughter. The child had confessed it to Ralph during one of her weekend visits. Enraged beyond reason, Ralph had taken matters into his own hands.

Brice thought T-Bear deserved a medal. Had it been him in the Ralph's place, he would've done much worse to the sick fucker.

"You're doin' it again," Rick spoke, staring at him.

"What?"

"You got that look, like you're thinkin' 'bout cuttin' some fool's head off."

"Just thinkin' about Ralph." Brice pointed out the big man sitting out in the prison yard by himself, reading a book. "Got thrown in the slammer for killin' his daughter's molester. Poor bastard."

"Man, fuck the 'justice' system!"

Before Brice could agree, the screech of metal against metal signaled the opening of the prison's front gate. He gazed out the windshield and saw a familiar figure stepping outside to freedom for the first time in years, carrying a brown paper sack full of his sparse belongings. Brice layed a hand on the horn to get his attention. The tall, long-haired, clean-shaven man rose a hand of acknowledgment and started over to the SUV.

"How's it feel to finally be a part of the general population again?" Brice asked once the man got into the back seat. He noticed the look on his face through the rear view mirror, the frown that deepened the age lines. "That bad, huh?"

"I'll feel a lot fucking better when I take care of some personal shit," the man spoke, a rough, angry edge to his voice. He turned his brown eyes on the passenger. "Who's this? The brother you was always going on about?"

Brice nodded. "This is Rick. Rick, this is Nathan."

"Nate," the man corrected. "Only you and my mother call me Nathan."

Rick turned in his seat to give the man a fist bump. "Sup, dude."

Brice backed out of the parking space and headed for the freeway. "You mentioned personal shit, _Nate_?"

"That I did, and I'm figuring you can help me out with that, seeing as how I'm helping you out."

_Of course._ "So?"

"Some asshole's been doing the horizontal tango with my ol' ball and chain while I been locked up. Fucking fifteen years of marriage! I get thrown in the can, and bam! She's suddenly stricken with amnesia, completely forgets she's a married fucking woman!"

"Or she's pissed at you for gettin' put in prison. How dare the _old ball and chain_," replied Brice with a dry tone.

"Hey, I meant that with deepest affection. Anyway, I want you to teach this fucker a lesson. I'd do it myself, but seeing as how I just got out...and I ain't really the violent type."

Brice made a face. "...You were in prison for nearly blowin' up an entire residential block, Nate, and you ain't violent?"

"It was _half_ a block," the man argued. "And I've told you that plenty of times. I blew up _one_ house and the resulting fires may have gotten a little out of control. It ain't my fault the fire department didn't get there quick enough."

Rick laughed at that. "This dude almost sound crazy as you, bro."

"So, where does Lily's new 'tango' partner live?" Brice asked.

"Harmony," Nate answered. "There's some old motel that got turned into apartments. That's where the wife-stealing bastard lives; apartment five."

That sent an unpleasant jolt down Brice's spine. _That's the Devil's Sons' place. Fuck._ He had no idea how to handle this now. The wife stealer could be any of the bikers. All he could do was hope it wasn't one of the ranked members. He needed Nate as much as he needed the club. _Fuck!_

"No offense, Nate, but why the hell would anyone have an affair with your wife? From all the shit you used to tell me about her, Lily ain't no delicate flower and she ain't no peach, either."

"You'd ever had your dick sucked by that woman, you'd know why. Gotta mouth like an industrial vacuum cleaner. Why you think I'm still married to her?"

Brice laughed, though it was rather forced. "Nice." _How the fuck am I gonna pull this off?_

He mulled it over on the short drive to Harmony, and by the time the apartments came into view, he still had no clue of what to do. Brice parked across the street and out of sight. The apartment complex and the clubhouse next door were crawling with bikers. Nate leaned against the back of his seat to get a better look.

"A nest of fucking bikers. Just the kinda guy Lily would fuck to get back at me." He tapped Brice's shoulder. "Hey, didn't you mention something about partnering up with some bikers? These the guys?"

"Yeah, so you understand the tight spot you're puttin' me in."

"Guess I should get you a great deal on those explosives then, huh?"

"Yeah, Nate, you better. I thought you knew who Lily was havin' an affair with?"

"No, I only knew she was having an affair. I had a buddy of mine on the outside follow her around before I got released. He tracked her down to this place every time. Never saw the guy, though. She would enter apartment five and leave the next morning." Nate prodded him in the shoulder. "What're you waiting for? Go get him, Tiger!"

"You want me to walk into a 'nest' of bikers who know me, armed with only a knife, and teach one of them a lesson about wife stealin'? I like to take risks, Nate, but I ain't fuckin' suicidal, and I ain't lookin' to fuck up my business before it's even got off the ground, either. We need to get these guys away from the complex somehow, so I can get into the apartment unnoticed. And hopefully the wife stealin' fuck is home, otherwise this is all for nothin."

Nate slapped him on the shoulder this time. "I got it! Do one of you have a box lighter?"

Rick produced one from a pocket, handing it over.

"What're you gonna do?" Brice questioned.

"Just wait here and keep watching. You'll know when to make your move."

Nate got out of the car and headed over to an empty RV parked in the lot with them. He glanced around to make sure he was alone, then worked on removing a propane tank hooked up to the back of the camper. Brice watched as the man started toward the clubhouse, going the long way around to the back to avoid being seen by the men.

"Is he gonna-" Rick started to ask.

"Yeah, he is," Brice answered, knowing what he was going to ask. "The idiot."

"How you gonna pull this off, B?"

"The only way I know how," Brice said. He leaned forward in his seat to pull his shirt off, then used his knife to strip off a length of the cloth. He tied that around the lower half of his face, and secured the rest over his head like a bandanna. "Am I recognizable?"

"Nah, you look like a-"

A deafening explosion cut him off. Across the street, the clubhouse was blazing, thick, dark plumes of smoke billowing up into the sky. People were running out of it in a panic, screaming. A handful of bikers were lying sprawled in the parking lot, some unmoving. The ones from the apartment complex had rushed over to see what the hell was going on and to aid their injured brothers.

"That's my cue," Brice said, stepping out of the SUV. "Be ready. We're gonna need to make a quick getaway."

"You know me!"

Brice bolted across the street toward the apartment building while the motorcycle-loving men were distracted with the destruction of their clubhouse. _All this bullshit for a woman._ But Brice could hardly blame Nate. She was _his_ woman, and this bastard had no right to her.

He burst his way through apartment five's door, and came face to face with Joseph, the club's treasurer and operator of its prostitution business. The man's glassy eyes squinted at him, he swayed a bit where he stood, and he held a pistol in his right hand.

_He's high as a goddamned kite_, Brice thought with contempt. _I knew this one was gonna be trouble. I'm gonna fuckin' enjoy this._

"Who the fuck are you? What's goin' on out there?" Joseph demanded to know.

"You should be more concerned about what's goin' on in here," Brice replied, kicking the door shut behind him. "I hear you've been fuckin' a married woman."

Joseph looked him over with a disdainful eye and grinned nastily. "You the husband?" His pistol rose between Brice's eyes. "Well, go fuck yourself, _hubby_. I fuck whoever I fuckin' want!"

Brice narrowed his eyes. "That ends today." He swiped his arm against Joseph's wrist in one lightning quick move, knocking the pistol from his hand. Joseph recovered surprisingly quick despite his muddled state, driving a fist into Brice's gut. He might as well have hit a brick wall; Brice didn't budge. There was pain in his stomach from the blow, but the pain was good. Pain fed the beast. His father had taught him that. Brice grabbed the man by the throat and slammed his other fist into his face. Joseph stumbled away, the back of his legs catching the edge of his unkempt bed. He fell back on the mattress, a hand over his gushing nose, blood seeping between his fingers.

Brice moved to stand over him, and pointed a finger at him. "Stay the fuck away from Lily. That's the only warnin' you get."

Joseph seemed to not be listening, his eyes glued to Brice's arm. At first Brice thought the man was simply dazed from a combination of whatever drug he was on and the blow he'd taken to the face, then he followed the man's gaze. Joseph was staring at his tattoo, the little cartoonish executioner inked on his forearm. _Fuck. He knows._

Joseph cut his eyes up at him. "You..." He laughed. "Oh, you _really_ fucked up, Murphy. The club's gonna hear ab-"

Brice thrust his knife up into the man's throat. There was no choice. "You fucked the wrong woman, Joe." He pulled the knife out and slipped its keen edge across Joseph's neck for good measure. The man made some watery death noise, blood pouring from his severed throat. He reeled back on the mattress, clutched at his neck for a brief moment, then his hands fell away, eyes fixing on nothing.

Brice left the apartment through a back window, not wanting to take even the smallest chance that someone might see him leave the apartment, covered in blood. The sound of shouts and screams and sirens and the thick smell of smoke and gas filled the area as he jogged around the back of the building. He found Nate standing at the corner of it, peering around the wall.

Brice put a hand on his shoulder and the man jumped, whirling around and squaring off, raising his fists. Brice laughed and pulled the strip of cloth down from his face. "Relax. It's me."

Nate let out a relieved sigh, then looked the man over, observing the blood stains and the knife still in his grip. "Jesus, I said teach him a lesson, not kill him."

"You know what I got at stake here," Brice hissed at him. "You think I'd kill him if I'd had the choice? He knew who I was."

"How? Your face was fucking covered."

Brice held out his arm. "Tattoo identified me." He pulled the cloth back up over his face. "Let's get the fuck outta here before we're noticed."


	11. Chapter 10: Boom

**Chapter Ten: Boom**

* * *

A bullet-pocked metal sign staked to the side of the sandy road claimed the trailer camp was called Sunset Shores. The place sat out in the desert west and a little north of the unpretentious hamlet of Harmony and consisted of four trailers, all of them weathered and eroded from years(perhaps even decades) of exposure to the harsh desert climate. Palm and Joshua trees, cacti, sagebrush, and the odd native flower grew sparsely around the distressed structures, the only natural green the Grand Senora Desert offered. One of the trailers had an old, blue, battered Bobcat parked in front of it, but it wasn't the trailer belonging to this Rick Murphy fellow Trevor and Sonia had come there for. The Murphy residence was a smaller place, in slightly better condition, and had a yellow and white-striped metal awning above the front door, flecked with rust.

Trevor parked his truck alongside another mobile home and out of view of the dirt road. The pair then exited the vehicle and approached the Murphy trailer to double check their assumption that no one was home. Sonia went around the residence, peeking in whatever windows she could and listening for any signs of life, then came back to the front.

"I didn't see or hear anyone, and there's no lights on. It's empty," she confirmed. "Guess we're gonna be waiting around again."

Trevor looked appalled by the very idea. "I'm literally standing on the enemy's doorstep, so close to victory I can almost _taste_ it. Fuck waiting around! I'm gonna..." Well, he wasn't sure _what _he was going to do in the meantime, until this scumbag showed his damn mug. He needed to do _something_, that much he was certain of.

"Gonna what?" prompted Sonia.

"Fuck, I don't know, uh..." He turned to face the trailer door and shrugged. "We might as well invite ourselves in, do a little investigating to pass the time. Yeah? Fantastic."

"Wait, I don't-" she started to caution, but was cut off by the sound of him kicking in the front door. It swung back violently, colliding with a wall. "Never mind." The jamb had splintered from the force, a good-sized sliver of it laying in the threshold. This Rick guy was definitely going to notice his front door had been broken through now. _Seriously, why do I bother? He might as well be deaf._

The man stepped inside the home, glancing at the living space and the merged kitchenette. The place was spotless and bland and hardly lived in; there were no personal touches like family photos, wall art or knickknacks, and the furniture was basic. The only thing that stood out was the neat stack of skin mags on the coffee table.

"_Jeeesus_, I've come across roadkill with more personality than this guy," Trevor remarked, strutting off into the living room.

"Anything in particular you're looking for?" Sonia asked as she rifled through the stack of mail sitting on the table by the door.

"Uh...don't know...location of his meth lab would be nice."

He sounded distracted. When Sonia glanced over at him, she saw why. The man stood over the coffee table, looking intently through one of the nude magazines. A small, amused smile played on her lips as she shook her head. "I doubt you're gonna find that in a dirty magazine."

"Mm," Trevor hummed, glancing up from the glossy skin mag with a smirk. "Am I detecting some _jealousy, _sunshine?"

"No, you are not." She went back to looking through the letters and such on the table, where a piece of junk mail caught her eye. It was addressed to a Brice Murphy, and her thoughts went to a certain man she'd had a few drinks and a one night stand with not too long ago. His name had been Brice, but she couldn't recall a surname. He probably hadn't given her one. _Gotta be a coincidence._

"What did your friend Lester find out about this guy, anyway? I mean, besides the obvious."

Trevor shrugged as he threw the explicit periodical on the table, not bothering to put it back the way he'd found it. "Boring shit. Born and raised in Sandy Shores, coincidentally. Fell off the grid for a while until he bought this shithole." He waved a hand around. "Pretty straight and narrow; no criminal record, a few parking tickets. The brother's a different story, just got done serving a dime and nickle bid in Bolingbroke for a possession and distribution charge."

Sonia's mouth went dry as she watched the man cross the living room into the kitchen and helped himself to a beer he found in the fridge. From what she could remember of the Brice she'd met at the Yellow Jack Inn, he'd been a former inmate of that same prison, served that same amount of time and for that same charge. _It can't be..._ "Meth?"

Trevor twisted the cap off the bottle with his teeth, then spat it in the direction of the counter. "What else?"

_It's not a coincidence; they're the same goddamned person._ "Shit!"

He took a swig of the cold beverage, raising a brow at the expression of mingled surprise and anxiety on her face. After he swallowed, he asked, "Something wrong, sunshine?"

Sonia sighed and ran a hand through the fringe of hair hanging over her forehead, pulling at it a little. "Look, uh, there's something I think you should know..."

"What? No, wait, I wanna guess! You're in love with me, right? _Right_?"

She ignored his tomfoolery. "I've met the brother before. Recently, at the Yellow Jack. We had a few drinks, talked a bit, one thing led to another, and we kinda fu-"

Trevor slammed the beer bottle down on the counter, foam bubbling up from the mouth and oozing down the neck. "You _w__hat_!? You _cheated_ on me with the _enemy_!? _I can't fucking believe this!_" His voice rose a few octaves higher, almost sounding shrill, and his hands did that repeated clenching and unclenching, as if he were limbering them up for a fight. Or perhaps it was some weird anger tic.

Sonia stuck her hands on her hips, frowning. "Okay, one, we ain't in a fucking relationship, so do us both a favor and get that through your thick damn skull! And two, I was completely wrecked; I didn't know what the fuck I was doing. And three, I didn't even know he was the enemy until just now. At the time, all I knew about him was his first name and that he'd just got done serving fifteen years in Bolingbroke for possessing and intending to distribute crank."

He dropped his head back and scoffed. "Oh, so that's all it takes for you to spread your legs, huh, a first name and a prison sentence?"

Infuriated, Sonia planted her hands against his chest and gave him a shove, eyes smoldering. "Fuck you, you scumbag piece of shit! How _dare_ you stand there and judge me! How many people have _you_ fucked while you're over there assuming we're in some kind of relationship?"

"That's not, I didn't..." he fumbled all over the words. "We ain't talking about _me_! We're talking about _you_!"

"That many, huh? Because it's perfectly okay for you to do it, you fucking hypocrite."

It finally registered in Trevor's mind that she'd shoved him just a moment ago. _What the fuck?_ So, he laid hands on her shoulders and shoved her back. "Hey, fuck you, I ain't a hypocrite! I was gonna come clean about those prostitutes...when the, uh, when the time was right!"

Sonia let out a short, sharp laugh and shook her head. "Here's the difference between you and me, Trevor. I don't have _delusions_ about what this-" She made a gesture between the two of them. "Is. I just thought you deserved to know the truth, so you didn't get the wrong fucking idea!"

"And what wrong fuckin' idea would that be?"

"What do you think? That I'm in cahoots with him or something, that I'm gonna stab you in the back." Sonia gave her shoulders an indifferent shrug as she looked down at the surface of the counter. "I betrayed someone else before, so who could fucking blame you for thinking that, right?"

Trevor didn't say anything, absent-mindedly peeling at the label on his bottle of beer. Then he grabbed it up and took a long swallow as Sonia moved away to a utility drawer, opening it and rummaging around inside for anything of interest.

She pulled out a note pad, noticing the little bits of torn paper trapped in the wire binders. Sonia flipped the pad to the first page, which was blank, and ran the tips of her fingers across it. She could feel indentations in the paper, and made a curious humming noise. "Long shot, but worth a shot."

The man watched her closely as he finished off the beer with a hearty belch. Sonia grabbed a pencil out of the drawer and sat the pad down on the counter. Lightly, she ran the lead back and forth across the blank paper until white numbers began to appear. Curious, Trevor moved to stand at her shoulder, looking over it. "Whatcha got?"

Sonia tore the small sheet off the wire, holding it up. "Enough digits for a phone number, but they're spaced out like longs and lats."

"Hm. Out of curiosity's sake, let's see where they take us." Trevor pulled his cellphone out of a pocket, accessed a handy-dandy map app, and punched the numbers in. The place indicator on the map zipped across southern San Andreas and plonked down near the heart of the Grand Senora Desert. "Bingo! It's close, a mile or two away. Gotta be the lab."

"How can you be sure?"

"It's out in the middle of the fuckin' desert; it makes sense. Perfect place to cook." He grabbed her by the shoulders, aimed her at the door, and gave her a push. "Now let's go. We need to stop by my place first."

"For?" Sonia asked as she exited the mobile home.

Trevor followed, putting his arms out, a maniacal grin on his face. "Sticky bombs, of course!"

"You're gonna blow shit up. Right, should've seen that coming."

As they headed off for the truck, the man said, "Just so you know, finding those coordinates the way you did earned you some respect points, sunshine."

"Oh, happy day," she replied with a sarcastic tone of voice. "My life is complete."

In response to that, Trevor threw an arm about her shoulders and squeezed her hard against his side, knowing she didn't like the close proximity. "Don't be a smartass," he growled. "Or I'm taking all those points back. You don't want that, trust me. The less points you have, the less I feel like keeping you around."

"Oh, really?" she scoffed. "So, where do my points stand now?"

"Well, it would've been a solid fifty, but I took off ten points for the fuckin' sarcasm," Trevor answered, opening the passenger door for her and taking her hand to help her in.

Sonia stared at him with a weird expression, as if he were some alien life form...because she was beginning to wonder if he did indeed come from another planet. That would certainly explain a lot. "More or less threatening me not five minutes ago, and now you're opening doors for me?"

He shrugged. "So? What, I can't threaten you _and_ be a gentleman?"

She shook her head as she climbed into the seat, the man closing the door after her. Of course he would think the whole damn thing was normal. "No, you can't. The two contradict each other.

Trevor hopped in behind the steering wheel, twisting the key sitting in the ignition. "Let me tell you something, sunshine. The world's full of contradictions; it ain't all black and white, and neither are people. We're all gray as fuck. Good guys can go bad, bad guys can be good. It's all about what people _wanna_ do, what they feel they need to do, what suits them in the moment."

Sonia mulled over that, getting an astonished expression. "Wow, that actually makes sense. Shockingly."

"And why are you surprised? Got anything to do with the fact that you've gone and labeled me strictly as a 'senseless murderer'? Just, bam, that's it. Nothing else to me and can't possibly have learned _shit_ about life?"

"I never said that."

"You were _thinking_ it," he accused. "Don't bother trying to deny it. It's what everyone thinks. For your information, I have plenty of wisdom to impart. I can also be a nice guy, and believe it or not, I even have a sensitive side."

Sonia snorted a laugh, trying to cover it up with a hand too little too late.

Trevor stared at her with his mouth open. "Are you fuckin' laughing at me?"

She shrugged and put that hand up. "Sorry, but that's a little difficult to imagine. I mean, when you say 'sensitive side', you are talking about a 'softer' side and not simply a side that gets offended over every little perceived insult?"

"Nobody said anything about soft," he half growled. "I just mean...you know, a _nicer_ side. I'll admit, not many get to see it; it's reserved for the ones I'm fond of."

"So, this best friend you've mentioned, I guess he's one of the 'lucky' ones?"

"Mikey? Oh, God, no. I hate the very ground that cold-blooded reptile walks on."

_Back to not making sense again. That was quick._ "He's your best friend, but you hate him? _Okay __then_."

"Look, it's complicated, alright!?" Trevor snapped. "I don't gotta explain myself to you!"

Sonia put her hands up, resigning from the conversation before it turned into an argument. "Sensitive subject. Got it."

In the weird silence that followed, Sonia lit herself a cigarette and stared out the window at the arid landscape zooming by. It was another fucking hotter than hell day in Blaine County, not a cloud in the sky to bring any respite from the merciless sun. On the road ahead, a silvery mirage made a few cars appear to be driving on water.

"There was a woman I was fond of, a while back..." the man spoke, his voice a shade softer, though it still held that natural rough timbre that reminded Sonia of tires rolling over gravel. "Patricia." He sighed the name as if it gave him pleasure in simply saying it. "She was a delicate, beautiful, mature flower of a woman. Ahh, they don't make 'em like her anymore."

"Uh, so how'd you meet this 'mature flower', or is this another sensitive subject that's gonna get you all bent out of shape?"

"Me and Mikey did a job for her dick of a husband. A job we weren't rightfully _paid_ for, I might add. Sooo...I sorta lost my temper and kidnapped her."

Sonia gazed at him. Trevor was smiling as if he were reliving some fond memories inside his head. "Of course you did."

"Hey, I treated her a helluva lot better than that fuck ever did. And she cared about me as much as I did about her. We had a beautiful but often misunderstood relationship."

_Misunderstood...I can't possibly imagine why. And I'm sure __she__ probably __wasn't __playing nice __with you__ just to stay alive._ She knew enough to keep that sarcastic thought to herself, because as strange as it was, there was no mistaking the odd tenderness in his eyes. The woman meant something to him. There was always an off chance she could be wrong about her assumption as well, and the woman actually had cared about him in her own way. "So, you talk about this in the past tense. Safe to assume you had to give her back?"

His jaw clenched and he drew in a deep breath as if he were fighting back some onslaught of emotion. "Yeah."

"You don't keep in touch?"

Trevor cleared his throat and shifted restlessly in his seat. "No. I mean, we did, but you know how it goes. Eventually, you just, you know...drift apart." There was a sad, miserable note in his voice.

Sonia put on a sympathetic look and reached over to give his knee a brief, consoling pat. "I'm sorry. That sucks."

The truck stopped suddenly, right there in the middle of the road. Sonia pressed her hands against the dashboard to brace herself and looked at the man in surprise. "What're you-"

"I need a hug." Trevor gazed at her with large, pleading, glimmering eyes and a look of desperation, too strong to be some kind of jest or stunt.

Sonia's eyes widened a tad and she swallowed._ Oh, God._ "...Maybe later?"

The man frowned. "I'm _hurting_ over here, or do you even fuckin' care?"

Sonia bit her lip and considered her options as a horn blared behind the truck. Maybe she could throw the door open and bolt. Then again, the man was a good deal quicker than she was. Even if she managed to get out of the vehicle in one piece, he'd run her down in a heartbeat. If not on foot, then most assuredly with his truck. "Uhm...Oh, Jesus God...okay, but no funny shit."

Sonia drew a hesitant arm across his shoulders, but a one-armed side hug wasn't good enough for Trevor, who whipped both his arms about her waist and pulled her flush against him, holding on tight, face buried in the crook of her neck. He was almost feverishly hot to the touch, sweaty and..._ugh, _why did this shit have to happen to her?

Cars were starting to pile up behind the Bodhi, their driver's honking and shouting for them to get the fuck out of the way. Sonia gave the man's back an awkward pat. "Okay, there there. That's enough." She tried to pull back, but Trevor held on, arms squeezing her like a vise.

"God, you smell good. What is that?" he commented.

"Uh, _hello_!" the commuter behind them shouted out his window. "Some of us have to be somewhere! Do that lovey-dovey crap at home!" The man then sat on his horn for a good couple of nerve-pulling minutes, really trying to hit the message home.

Irritated by the lack of consideration and having a nice moment ruined by said lack of consideration, Trevor let out an animalistic growl, pushed Sonia back and got out of the truck, storming over to the man's sedan. The driver stared at him with a cross look on his face. Trevor cocked a fist and let it fly through the open window. One good biff to the face and the man was out cold, collapsing forward on the steering wheel. "We were having a moment, you inconsiderate piece of shit!" Trevor informed the unconscious man before stomping back to his Bodhi, slamming the door shut behind him.

Sonia kind of felt sorry for the sedan driver, but she was more than a little grateful for his rude distraction. Jesus God, that hug might've gone on _forever_.

"Thanks, sunshine," said Trevor as he drove onward. "I really needed that."

"Uh huh, don't mention it...no, really, _don't ever mention it_." She could really do without any future reminders of it; the weird smell he left on her clothes was doing that well enough on its own.

Some twenty to twenty-five minutes later, the Bodhi pulled into Sandy Shores and onto Zancudo Avenue. It lurched to a stop outside the shittiest trailer in town. The thing looked like it should've been condemned long ago, and there was a sour, death-like odor wafting from it that Sonia could smell from the passenger seat.

"Sit tight," Trevor said as he gave her thigh an unnecessary squeeze, then shoved his door open to get out.

Sonia watched as the man disappeared inside the trailer, then she switched the radio on to a classic rock station, her timing perfect. The unmistakeable beginnings of Journey's _Lovin', Touchin', Squeezin'_ poured out of the stereo's speakers, by far her favorite song and band of all time; Steve Perry had sung his way into her heart when she was a mere twelve years old. Sonia hummed along to his creamy vocals, watching a Sandy Shores local play with his dog on a street corner.

A moment later, Trevor came back out, a small box tucked under an arm, which he sat down in the truck bed. Then he took his place behind the steering wheel, making a face at the music and reaching out to turn it on to something better.

Sonia pulled his hand away. "Leave it. This is my favorite song."

"Journey?" He got a disgusted look. "Ugh, I should've known you'd have horrible taste in music."

Amused, she said, "Interesting. You knew exactly who it was."

Trevor pushed the gear stick into drive and hit the gas. "How can I not? Voice sounds like a fuckin' cat being strangled; it's distinctive."

"To each his own, I guess. Alright, so what's _your_ brand of tune then?"

He rose a hand to the stereo knob again and switched through the stations until he found the one he wanted, then cranked the volume up until Sonia thought her ear drums would shatter. What came out of the speakers was some death metal garbage, the front man screaming bloody murder. Somehow she wasn't surprised he listened to this crap.

"Now _this_ is fuckin' music!" Trevor shouted over the noise pollution. "Woo!"

"What!?" she shouted back, not understanding a single word he'd said over all the 'fuck' this and 'fuck' that and 'kill' and 'maim' and 'murder' being roared at them through the speakers by some enraged madman.

When they got to the spot the coordinates lead them to, Trevor turned the volume down and Sonia found her ears ringing in the quiet, wondering if she would ever hear the same way again. A little ways ahead of them, there was a small valley between the rugged Grand Senora dunes, where a travel trailer sat all by itself, looking quite out of place.

Trevor parked his truck upon the apex of one of the dunes, killing the engine. He was halfway out the door, raring to go and do damage, when Sonia caught his arm, realizing something. The man threw her an impatient look.

"This guy makes the best meth this county's ever seen..."

"So? What's your point?"

"Ain't it obvious? Make this guy cook for you. I mean, he could be a fucking gold mine. Tweakers will give their limbs and their own mothers just for a hit of the bad shit. Raise the street value and they ain't gonna blink an eye."

Trevor stared at her for a moment, at the shrewdness flickering in her black eyes. An attractive sight, and her heart was in the right place, but nevertheless... "You think that's what this is about? The money?" He huffed a laugh. "Like I need it? Oh, no, sunshine, it's about this fuck thinking he can take _my_ territory right out from under me. I don't need, nor do I want, his fuckin' product. The only crank that's gonna move in this county is Trevor Philips' crank."

Sonia made a renouncing gesture. "Okay, just a thought. You're the boss."

"That's right, I am, and don't you fuckin' forget it."

She frowned at the hostility in his voice. "Hey, look, I was only-"

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Trevor clipped in, waving a dismissive hand. "You were only trying to 'help'. I don't give a fuck. I know what I'm doing, and you, you're just an extra gun, not a consigliere. Know your place and keep your oh-so helpful advice to yourself."

"Well, excuse the fuck outta me!"

"Consider yourself fortunate that you _are_ excused this time, 'cause I got a merciful heart. Now try not to make the same mistake thrice. Three strikes and you're out, princess, and I mean that in-"

"Yeah," she interrupted with a sharp tone as she shoved the passenger door open and got out. "It's a fucking threat. What else is new?"

Trevor looked at her for a moment, then rolled his eyes and stepped out of the truck, grabbing one of the explosives from the box in the back. Sonia followed him down the dune to the travel trailer, drawing her gun. She kept an eye on their surroundings as Trevor planted the plastic explosive on the trailer's exterior wall. When it was in place, he yanked his pistol from the waistband of his dirty jeans and moved around to the trailer's front door. He hadn't seen the noxious fumes of production ventilating from place. There was a chance no one was even inside, but fuck it, he _had_ to check. He wanted to look the ballsy bastard in the eye when he killed him.

Trevor climbed the two steps to the door and tried the handle, finding it locked. There wasn't enough space to take his usual approach to getting through a door, so he rammed a shoulder against it a few times and stumbled inward when the door finally gave, raising his combat pistol. There was no one inside, but the place smelled toxic.

He lowered his gun as he looked around the lab space at all the high-quality glassware and equipment, his mouth open. He hated to admit it, even in his own mind, but it was impressive. Everything was fucking clean and well-organized. A section of the lab space was given to each step of the cooking process to make production simpler and more efficient, and the trailer's air conditioning unit in the roof had been converted into a ventilation system. This was all set up by someone who took their shit serious and knew what the fuck they were doing.

Still, the place reeked, bad enough to make his eyes and nose and throat burn. Which meant only one thing.

Standing near a counter, Trevor reached out and touched the surface of a heating mantle. He promptly took his hand back, grimacing. It was still hot, confirming his belief that the cook had been here not long ago. His dark eyes lifted to the space at the back of the trailer where the bathroom and bedroom were. Perhaps the guy was even still here,_ hiding_.

Hoping against hope, he checked the tiny bathroom first. Nothing. The bedroom next. Nada. Trevor checked _everywhere_, every conceivable hiding place, even the goddamn refrigerator. Fucking zilch for the effort.

Baring his teeth, he slammed a fist against a wall as Sonia stepped into the trailer, making a disgusted face, perhaps at the noxious stench. He didn't know, he didn't care. "Fuck! _Just_ missed him!"

"Shall we wait, see if he comes back?" the woman asked.

He considered this, then shook his head. "The door was locked and he just got done cooking. I'd say he ain't coming back today." There was always tomorrow, but...that was fucking _tomorrow. _He wanted – _needed_ \- to do something right goddamned now. "Argh! Fuck it, come on."

The pair left the trailer and started back for the truck. Trevor pulled himself up on the hood, while Sonia stood nearby with her arms folded against her chest and a confused expression on her face, not quite sure whether he intended to wait or blow the trailer to kingdom come. Perhaps it should've been obvious, but nevertheless, she asked, "What now?"

The man smiled, and for the first time, Sonia found him oddly magnetic. "Now we sit back and watch the show." He reached into a pocket and pulled his cellphone out.

Sonia stepped over and leaned back against the truck's grille, eying the device in his hand. "You can detonate that thing from your cellphone?"

"With the push of a button." And a button he indeed pushed.

Down in the little valley below them, the trailer exploded into a fireball with a deafening boom, smoking and flaming metal flying in eight different directions before it all came crashing to the desert floor. The intense heat wafted up to the duo at the crest of the dune.

"Neat," Sonia commented.

"Mm," Trevor hummed, watching the blazing inferno with an expression of content. "I never get tired of seeing that. Beautiful as a desert sunset."

The pair watched the flames in silence for a while. Given the fact that the trailer had housed so many combustible chemicals, the remnants of it burned something fierce, hardly any smoke drifting out from it. By the time smoke did begin rise from the destruction, Sonia spoke.

"Well, I think this calls for some strong, celebratory drinks."

"Read my mind," Trevor agreed, slipping off the hood and pointing at her. "You're buying."

"Of course I am, Mr. Multimillionaire."

* * *

As the black unmarked van cruised up the dirt road toward the big red barn, Brice Murphy, the man at the vehicle's helm, took note of a white van parked outside the farm building. A tall African-American man stood next to it, dressed in a lavender polo and slate-gray slacks. A pair of dark-tinted sunglasses shielded his eyes and he stood so motionless he seemed a statue.

Brice rose his eyes up to the rear view mirror, looking at long-haired Nate where he sat in the back of the van. "This your guy?"

Nate leaned forward, resting an elbow against the passenger seat as he peered through the windshield at the man ahead. "Yup, that's Terrell."

"I see he's a man of his word. He came alone."

"He takes his shit serious. Real professional-like."

Brice smiled. "I like him already."

He pulled up alongside the other van and killed the engine. Brice, his brother, and Nate got out of the vehicle and approached the waiting man. Nate greeted Terrell with a hand shake and a' how you doing', then proceeded to ask how the family was. That out of the way, Nate made the introductions. When Brice held his hand out, Terrell merely stood there for some moments. He got the feeling he was being scrutinized from behind those sunglasses, studied like a germ under a microscope. Then Terrell grasped his hand firmly. There was confidence in his grip, and it surrounded the man like an aura.

"Nate's told me all about you, Brice."

His brows rose and he cast a quick sideways glance at his fellow ex-inmate. "He has?"

Terrell gave a wide grin, flashing a set of perfect pearly whites. "Oh, don't worry, he kept to the basics. Told me you spent some time in Bolingbroke, said you were close pals. Whatever you're planning to do with my product, that's your business. The less I know, the better it is for all of us."

"That's how I like to do business. And we weren't _that_ close, just so you know."

Terrell laughed. "That notion never crossed my mind. You don't seem like the prison bitch type. The products in the back."

The man led the trio around to the back of his van and threw the doors open. Sitting inside were two lidded crates. "Fifty pounds of C4 and burner cells set up for remote detonation."

"Shit, yo," Rick breathed. "That's enough to blow up the fuckin' Maze Bank Arena. We really need this much?"

"That's not nearly enough to blow up that arena, trust me. And there's no such thing as too much C4, son," Nate said. "Whatever's left over can go into reserve for future use. Terrell here's offering a great deal for this. Makes this shit himself, too. He's a fucking artiste!" He slapped the tall man on the back. "Ain't that right, Tere?"

Terrell smiled. "You know I don't like to boast." He took his sunglasses off and clipped them to the collar of his polo. "Let's do business, gentlemen. I'm set to tee off at the country club in fifteen minutes. Because Nate's an old friend and a loyal customer, I'm giving you a discounted price of thirty Gs."

"Normal price'll run you fifty Gs, a thousand for every pound," Nate added. "So, you're getting forty percent off this deal."

Brice nodded, giving off an expression of approval. "Sounds good to me." He looked over at his brother. "Rick, if you will."

"A'ight, I'm on it."

The younger Murphy jogged backed to their van and opened the back door. A black duffel sat inside, which he proceeded to unzip. Within the confines of the cloth bag were stacks and stacks of greenbacks, all held together with bill bands. Rick took quite a few of them out, putting them in neat stacks off to the side, leaving only the required cash inside the duffel. Zipping it back up, he grabbed it and headed back to Terrell and the others, tossing the lightweight duffel to the man.

Terrell sat it inside the back of the van to check that the cash was all present and accounted for. Then he nodded his head and stuck his hand out to Brice. "Nice doing business with you. Oh, there's one last thing..."

It happened quick, far too quick and far too unexpected. Terrell's left arm moved, there was a flash a silver and then the loud, pronounced crack of a gun. Nate dropped to the ground like a pile of bricks, a bloody, gaping hole in the side of his skull.

"Fuckin' hell!" Rick shouted in alarm, eyes wide. "You iced the dude!"

Brice stared down at Nate, and all he could think was, _that could've been my brother_. He could usually sense when shit was going to go down like this, from even the slightest hint in the other person's body language, but Terrell had given off nothing but that air of confidence. He tore his hand from Terrell's grasp, glaring at him, but he was angry at himself as much as he was at him. "What the fuck was that about!?"

Terrell aimed his platinum pistol between Brice's narrowed blue eyes. "Nate once gave me his word that he'd never tell a living soul about the business we do - _did_ \- together. It would seem he went back on it, wouldn't you agree? If you can't trust a man's word, you can't trust the man." He lowered the gun, easing it into the back of his pants. "Load up your product and make it quick. I don't want to be here when the cops show up."

Then Terrell made the mistake of turning his back. Confidence was a dangerous thing, sometimes for the one who owned it. Brice was on him in a heartbeat, grabbing the back of his neck and a fistful of his polo. He rammed him face first into the side of the van, pulled him back and slammed him forward again, wedging his forearm against the nape of the man's neck and pressing all two hundred and thirty pounds of himself into him, pinning him in place.

"What the fuck!?" Terrell shouted, his voice nasally due to a broken nose. He tried to squirm against Brice and the van, but the other man's strength, heightened by the flow of rage adrenaline in his veins, made it impossible to move. Brice's free hand worked Terrell's pistol out of the waistband of his slacks, then he backed up, aiming the weapon at the back of his head.

Terrell turned around, back pressed up against the side of the white van, where his blood was smeared. Red dribbled down over his lips from his nose, which was set at a precarious, sickening angle. There was also a bleeding gash up on his forehead and a bruise forming below an eye. His sunglasses lay broken in the dirt near his feet. "You think you're going to get away with this? You know who I-"

Brice aimed the pistol low and put a bullet in the man's knee cap. Terrell howled and dropped to the dirt, cradling the bleeding joint. "Yeah, actually, I _am_ gonna get away with it." His aim rose up to the man's head. "This is for Nate." He squeezed the trigger thrice, blood and brain matter spattering the side of the white van. Terrell's corpse toppled to one side, blood pooling around his head.

Brice holstered the gun in the waist of his jeans and turned to his brother, who stared at the fresh body with eyes that were slightly wide. "Let's load up those crates."

"You think it's safe to take that shit, bro? I mean, what if he like...rigged it up to kill us or somethin'?"

Brice shook his head. "This was about Nate. This asshole had it all planned to go down like this. If he'd wanted us dead, too, we'd be alongside Nate with our brains blown out. He ain't gonna waste his explosives on us."

"I guess." Rick eyed Nate's corpse, giving his head a piteous shake.

The brothers loaded the two crates and the duffel of cash into the back of their van, then got in and vacated the crime scene, Brice behind the steering wheel. Some forty minutes later, he reached the home improvement store off the Senora Freeway and drove around to the back, where there were some storage units. He spotted Clyde waiting for them outside of one, sitting tall on his black Revenant motorcycle, arms folded against his leather-clad chest. Brice parked the van close by and killed the engine.

"Where's your pal from the pen?" Clyde asked as the Murphy brothers exited the vehicle. "Thought you said he'd be ridin' along with you?"

"He met with an unexpected end," Brice answered as he walked around to the back of the van. "Shit got a little out of control with his explosives guy."

"Sorry to hear. Shit's gettin' out of fuckin' control for all of us." There was a rough, angry edge to Clyde's voice.

"What do you mean?" Brice asked, though he knew where this was going.

"That fucker torched our clubhouse and murdered Joseph yesterday, that's what the fuck I mean." The biker's face was red with rage.

"Jesus, Clyde. What fucker?"

"That psychotic fruitcake we're tryin' to put in the fuckin' ground! Who you think!?"

Brice had to fight off a smile. _Good, go on and keep thinking it was him._ It would only give the MC more determination to see Philips dead. "I thought he didn't know about your spot in Harmony?"

"Well, I guess he fuckin' does now, don't he? Gotta be him. If it'd been anyone else, the cartels or the LS gangs, we woulda faced their soldiers. Had to be one man, maybe two."

"Nobody saw anything?"

"Not a damn thing. Happened quick."

"Well..." said Brice, putting on a thoughtful front. "I guess it makes sense. It _is_ just him and two other guys, and from what Rick has told me, this fucker's into torchin' shit. What I don't get is Joseph. Why kill him? _Only_ him? Were your other guys not there?"

"It was him and Edward at the apartment, and a handful of members at the clubhouse. Ed said he'd heard the explosion and went to help. When he got back, he found Joey dead in his apartment. Throat cut." Clyde got a look that Brice didn't like, a look as if he were trying to put clues to a mystery together. "Now that I think about it, it don't make no sense to torch the clubhouse and not the apartment. Makes sense if it was only meant to be a distraction. This is startin' to feel like a fuckin' hit."

_Fuck._ "I wouldn't read into it too much," Brice said. "The man is unpredictable, after all. Who knows why he does the shit he does? Besides, if someone was gonna put a hit out on a member of your MC, it'd be on you, the leader. There's nothin' to gain from killin' Joseph."

Clyde yanked at his red beard as he considered that. "I don't know. All I do know is shit's fucked. Royally fuckin' fucked."

"So what happens with your club now?"

"We're movin' our headquarters to Cape Catfish till we get the clubhouse rebuilt. Parker owns some property there. Inconspicuous, quiet and secluded."

"The perfect place for an ambush," Brice noted.

Clyde grinned. "Glad I ain't the only one who thinks so. Anyway, how much boom you get your hands on?"

"Fifty pounds of C4, and all for free."

"Killed the supplier, did ya?" Clyde laughed.

Brice shrugged. "He killed my friend first." He looked over at the storage units. There were six in all, lining the back of the YouTool store. "So, we're keepin' it all here? Is it secure enough?"

"Yeah, it'll do, and our mutual enemy don't know 'bout it. Just bought the space this mornin'."

"Good. Can you help Rick with the other crate? I need to make a call."

Clyde nodded and gave his shoulder a pat as he sauntered off to the storage unit to open the padlock on the roll up door. Brice stepped off to the side and pulled his cellphone from his pocket. Alice, his gifted meth cook, was the first person on his contacts list. As the number dialed in, he brought the phone up to his ear. It went straight to the woman's voice mail. Frowning, Brice tried it again with the same result. This wasn't right. She was supposed to be out cooking today, and he'd specifically told her to keep her phone on if he needed to contact her. The woman wouldn't have disobeyed him; she was too afraid to.

"What's up, B?" Rick asked after moving the crate of C4 into the storage unit and observing the frown on his brother's face.

"Somethin', but I don't know what. Alice ain't answerin' her phone."

It was then that he noticed the smoke a ways across the expanse of pale desert, rising steadily toward the afternoon sky.

* * *

**Semi-important A/N:** I know, I know, my updates are slow and infrequent and I'm a pain in the ass. _I'm sorry!_ So, anyway, I made an account(under this same pen name) at AO3 and posted this story there as a backup in case FFN starts acting like a glitchy bitch again as it recently did. So, you know, if anything ever happens, you can check there for updates.


	12. Chapter 11: Miracles and Monsters

**Important A/N:** I made a few changes to the last chapter the day after I posted it, so you can go back and reread if you're one of those people who got to it early, before the change, though you shouldn't get confused by this chapter if you don't. Also, some bad news, I'm losing my internet provider in early Nov - Sprint bought it out and the greedy fuckers aren't bringing the customers over, so I gotta buy a new modem and a new plan. My financial situation is shit, so I don't know when I'll be able to get the 'net back. Anyway, not sure if I'm going to have the time, but I'm going to _try_ _my damnedest _to squeeze out one more chapter before that time comes. On the bright side of this situation, if I am looking at a particularly long departure, at least I'll have quite a few chapters for you when I get back.

One last thing, because I don't think I've said it once, **thank you** to all of you out there who've kept reading despite my snail-paced updates and to everyone who's reviewed, favorited, and followed. You guys are awesome, wonderful, stupendous, splendiferous, kryptonian...okay, I'll shut up now.

* * *

**Chapter 11: Miracles and Monsters**

"Jesus Christ."

He could hardly believe his eyes.

"Jesus motherfuckin' Christ!"

He stood in the midst of a small debris field, smoldering bits of metal, melted plastic, blackened shards of glass and God only knew what else laying at his feet. This scattered wreckage was all that was left of his meth lab. And Alice, she was most certainly dead. One moment he had been right there on the cusp of taking over the meth game in Blaine County. Victory had been within his reach, brushing his fingertips; all it would have taken to finally have it in his grasp was to put his big plan in motion. It had been the last fucking step. But in the next moment, _this_ happened. All he'd worked to do, now in fucking ruins.

Brice clenched his fingers into a pair of fists and booted a piece of black metal across the sand. "_Goddamn fuckin' shit_!" He began to pace, hands raising to his shaved head, fingers digging painfully into his scalp. His mind furiously worked out who could have done this. His first guess, unsurprisingly, was Trevor Philips. Brice shook his head. No, that didn't make sense. Even if the bastard somehow knew he was behind the take over, there was no way he would've known about Alice or where the lab was. Not even Czarnecki knew about them. It had stayed a secret between him and Rick for this exact reason. And Rick...he didn't doubt Rick; he trusted him more than anyone. He wouldn't have said shit. Who the hell could it have been? How could they have found out about Alice and the lab? None of this made any goddamned sense.

While Brice went on trying to figure out how the fuck this could have happened, Rick watched his angered brother pace across the sand, giving him distance. Moments like these were when he was really afraid of him, when Brice was at his most unpredictable. His rage often made him something...less than human. Rick hated to think it, but it wasn't far from the truth. He'd seen his brother do some truly atrocious things when the heat was in his blood. He hadn't always been that way, though.

It had started the night Brice had killed their parents, when the physical abuse their father had inflicted on them both finally broke something in him and he reached the point of no return. Rick would never tell him, but sometimes he still had nightmares about that night; the cleaver, the hideous amount of blood, their father's severed hands laying on the carpet, his hacked up body, and a young Brice screaming over and over at his corpse, "Let's see you beat on us now!". Their mother hadn't been as bad as their father; she had been a coward, admittedly, too afraid to stand up to him, but she had never laid her hands on either of her sons. Ever. But in his state of mindless rage, Brice had killed her too, burying that cleaver in the top of her head while she stood there in terror, staring at him as if he were a monster, screaming. Rick knew Brice harbored no guilt for his actions that night, but Rick did. He had stood there, just like his mother, and did nothing while his brother broke before his very eyes. Perhaps if he'd stopped him...

The rumble of a motor pulled the younger Murphy from his thoughts, and he cast a glance in the direction of the sound. There was a familiar dark green Perennial rolling toward them between the desert dunes, clouds of dust trailing it. "What the fuck?" Rick muttered, then rose his voice to address his pacing brother. "Hey, B! Ain't that Alice's car?" He pointed to it.

Brice stopped and followed Rick's finger, hand reaching for the silver gun tucked in his jeans. The station wagon braked right there beside him and he stared through the driver's side window at Alice's shocked face, his brow furrowing. The woman reached for the door handle, but Brice beat her to it, yanking the door open and laying a hand on her arm to drag her from the station wagon. He came to a conclusion. It had to be her who'd done this. Probably an accident, but he didn't care.

Alice struggled against his harsh grip on her, frowning. He let go of her arm and grabbed her throat, shoving her back against the side of her Perennial. The silver gun came up, pressing against her temple. Alice let out a terrified squeak, her eyes two wide pools of green behind silver-framed glasses that caught a glint of sun.

Brice's face was calm, but there was fire in his blue eyes and in the tone of his voice, "I was told you were one of the best cooks out there, talented and professional. So, how the fuck does _this_-" He gestured at the destruction around them with the gun before aiming it back at her head again. "Happen!? Explain that to me! How the fuck does the best blow up her goddamned lab!? Or was all I told about you a fuckin' lie!?"

"W-What?" Alice stammered. "I-I...I know what I'm doing! I've done it _thousands_ of times! I don't know how this happened, I swear! I just got done with a batch not thirty minutes ago. I made sure everything was turned off, checked _three times_ like I always do, then I left."

"Why was your fuckin' cellphone turned off?" Brice demanded to know, uncertain if he believed what she was telling him. "And why did you come back if you were done for the day?"

"The battery died, and I live close by. I saw the smoke, got a bad feeling and decided to check it out. I swear to God, Brice. I didn't do this."

Rick stepped up to his brother's side and put a hand on his shoulder. "Come on, bro, chill out. She knows her shit, she's too smart to fuck up this bad. It couldn't have been her."

The woman gave him a grateful look and he smiled back...until his brother turned a ferocious look on him.

"Then who the fuck could it have been, Rick, since you have all the fuckin' answers!? Who the fuck could have done this when no one but me, you and her know about the lab!?" Brice glared at Alice, pointing the gun at her again. "Did you fuckin' blab the location to someone?"

"No!" she shouted as she pushed the gun away, showing some spirit at last. "I'm a single mother with a six-year-old son who's got fucking leukemia and I've got a mountain of medical bills! Do you honestly think I'm going to risk the only job that can provide enough money to care for him and pay that shit off!? _Do you_!? You stupid fucking asshole!"

"_Dayum_!" Rick exclaimed, staring at the woman in surprise. "She told yo ass off, B!"

Brice was just as surprised as his brother. Who knew little mousy Alice had a bit of spitfire in her? Had he known about her son, he would not have accused her. His old prison friend Ralph had taught him that not all parents were like his and Rick's, that there were some who loved their own flesh and blood enough to sacrifice everything for them. Alice seemed to be one of them, and now he didn't know what to say. "Okay...well, I wasn't aware of your situation. If I had been-"

"Well, maybe if you'd bothered to fucking _ask_!" she snapped. "But no, you've got your fucking head too wrapped around taking down this Trevor guy, someone you don't even fucking personally _know_! What is it with you men and your territorial bullshit!?"

Brice frowned as he holstered his gun in the waist of his pants. "Watch your mouth, Alice. If it wasn't for my 'territorial bullshit', you wouldn't be gettin' paid more than what your former employers were payin' you."

The woman folded her arms at her chest and pouted. "Fine. Granted." Her tone was bitter and resentful. "But it still doesn't excuse your unjustified accusation."

"And I apologized for that."

Alice gave him an incredulous look, then glanced over at Rick. "Did you hear him say 'I'm sorry'? Because I sure as hell didn't."

Rick put his hands up as if to say _don't bring me into this_.

"It was implied," Brice said. "Take it or leave it."

"So what the fuck we gonna do now?" his brother asked in an effort to change the subject. "We gotta have thirty pounds of product for Czarnecki by the end of next week. And with these other dudes wantin' to partner up with us..." He sucked his teeth and shook his head. "Man, shit's fucked."

Alice glanced between the brothers, frowning. "What other dudes?"

Brice decided it was best to bring her up to speed on that. "The MC's Las Venturas chapter wants a gun deal with some guys; I don't know who they are, Clyde didn't say, but these guys are lookin' to get into the meth game. They'll give the LV chapter their gun deal if they can secure a partnership with me. I agreed to it, 'cause it's what the LV chapter wants in return for helpin' me out with the take over."

Alice's frowned deepened. "And you didn't think to consult me about it when I'm the one who's going to get loaded down with the brunt of the work?"

"No," Brice snapped. "I didn't think to consult you, 'cause you're a fuckin' employee who does what she's told, and gets paid well for it." He sighed, realizing that maybe he was being a tad harsh on her. "Look, you're not gonna be doin' all the work yourself. You're gonna have help."

She got a skeptical look. "I am?" He'd mentioned getting her some assistants before, but had never followed through on it. Alice thought it best not to point that out to him, however. She'd been bold enough for one day, thank you.

The man smiled. "You'll be workin' alongside another cook. I'm gonna kidnap Philip's guy."

"Jesus, are you kidding?"

"I don't kid. It's happening today."

Rick stared at his brother in surprise. "How the fuck, B? You ain't even got a plan yet. 'Sides, I thought this was gonna go down when you put your grand plan into action?"

Brice shook his head. "It needs to happen today; we need the fuckin' product. It won't take much to get him. I'll get a few of Clyde's guys to come with me, we'll stake out the meth lab, make sure the guy's alone when we grab him."

"You're doin' this without me?"

"You're gonna be busy, lookin' for property. Somethin' big and out of the area." Brice made a disgusted face. "I would've much rather preferred two separate meth labs, but a bigger one's gonna have to do." He looked at the woman. "Alice, you're gonna gather what's needed to start cookin' again. Rick'll front

you the cash, however much you need; we got plenty from our old operation, so go for the quality equipment, just like before."

"Where am I supposed to store all that equipment until Rick gets the property?" she asked.

"Clyde's got a storage unit behind YouTool off the freeway. I'll get the key from him." Brice gave them both a severe look. "This really needs to happen today, all of it."

Alice shook her head and unfolded her arms, letting them drop to her sides. "Then pray for a miracle."

* * *

After Brice had dropped off his brother at some gas station off the freeway where he'd left the Pimpmobile parked, he realized something and phoned Rick.

His brother answered on the second ring, "I'm gettin' it done, bro. Chill."

"Listen," Brice said, ignoring him. "Don't go home."

"Why?"

"Think about it, little brother. We kept the lab secret, but someone still managed to fuckin' find it. How easy you think it's gonna be to find where we live?"

"Damn...I see your point. So where we gonna sleep and shit? Or are we officially homeless now?"

"No, we ain't homeless, you fuckin' dope. Get a room at the Eastern Motel in Harmony and put at least a month's worth of rent on it. We've lived in worse places."

"True dat," Rick agreed. "Remember that old abandoned asylum? The fuckin' _memories_ of that place still give me the heebie jeebies."

"I remember you couldn't fall asleep unless I scoured that place from top to bottom, _every fuckin' night_, to make sure there weren't any crazy people or their ghosts hidin' somewhere."

"Yeah, you're a good brother, B. Ain't arguin' there."

"Just don't go home. For anything. And pay attention, make sure nobody's tailing you."

"A'ight, I hear you."

Brice took his own advice as he drove his van into Harmony, keeping one eye on the rear view mirror, the other on the road ahead, and Terrell's silver pistol within reach on the passenger seat. At one point he actually thought he _was_ being tailed. A black truck had followed him a couple of car lengths back for half a mile before it finally turned off on a dirt road and he never saw it again.

Brice slowed the van at the approach to the MC's apartments and eyed the blackened remains of the clubhouse next door. There were a few bikers there, sifting through the wreckage. At the apartments, there was a motorcycle sitting in the space outside apartment five, a shrine of flowers and photos and flickering candles sitting around it. Brice thought it strange that the Devil's Sons paid respects to a fallen brother in such a normal way. He would've thought they'd have some kind of biker ritual, perhaps Clyde would give Joseph's bike one final, memorial ride into the dying sunset or some kind of bullshit like that.

He parked the van in a vacant space, giving Joey's shrine a respectful distance. Not because he actually fucking cared, mind you, but it was polite enough not to make his indifference obvious to the bikers that were present, hanging around the premises. As Brice exited the vehicle, he addressed one of the leather-wearing dudes nearby, "Is Clyde around?"

The man jerked a thumb at one of the apartment doors and Brice nodded his thanks, heading for the indicated residence. He knocked on the door and got an instant response.

"It's open!"

Brice stepped inside the apartment and looked around as he shut the door behind him. It was clean for a biker's place, though there wasn't much in the way of decoration aside from the black cloth banner hanging on the wall behind the black leather couch, displaying the MC's flame insignia. Clyde sat at the dining table, fiddling on a laptop while a blonde woman, perhaps his old lady, clattered about in the kitchen. The biker glanced up from the computer screen at Brice. "Somethin' up?"

Brice crossed his arms at his broad chest, his face hardening. "Only my fuckin' meth lab, went up in a ball of fire. The cook was lucky enough not to be around when it happened. Looks like we're in the same goddamned boat, Clyde.

Clyde stared at him for a long moment, then shook his head and slapped his laptop closed. "It was only a matter of fuckin' time before he got to you, too."

"It wasn't him," Brice insisted. "It _can't_ be. Even if by some fuckin' miracle he knows about us and what we're planning, the only people who knew the location of the lab was me, Rick, and my cook. I trust Rick more than anyone; he kept his mouth shut, and the cook's too fuckin' afraid of me to try to fuck me over."

"Maybe that's what your cook _wants_ you to think," Clyde pointed out.

"My cook's in a bad way; single parent with a sick kid and needs the money to provide for him and pay his fuckin' medical bills. There's too much to risk."

Clyde frowned as he sat back in his chair and pulled a pack of cigarette's from a vest pocket. "You got some enemies I don't know about?"

Brice shook his head. "Not that I know of. The only loud move I made was stealin' Philips' distributor, and like I said, he can't know where the lab is."

"You ever consider that just _maybe_ your brother fucked up, spouted off about the lab and it somehow got around to this fucker?"

Brice's arms dropped from his chest as he glared at the biker. "No, I ain't gonna consider it. That's my fuckin' _blood_ you're accusin'! I know him; he'd never do shit like that!"

"Alright, Murph, calm the fuck down. It was just a suggestion, and somebody had to make it."

Brice ran a hand across his jaw and walked the living room floor, back and forth. "I don't know who's responsible, and there's nothin' I can do 'bout it now when I gotta deal with the aftermath. I didn't just come here to tell you 'bout the lab. I need some men. Three, if you can spare 'em."

"For?"

He stopped and looked at the biker. "I'm takin' your suggestion, kidnappin' Philips' guy. It's got to go down today, though."

"I can spare Parker and a prospect," Clyde said as he stood from his chair, grinning. "And myself."

"I thought prospects were lowly servants until they earned their way into the club, that they didn't participate in any big shit?"

Clyde shrugged. "They gotta be tested to earn their way in, and this is outside work, not really club business. Perfect time to see what he's made of." He made for the door, clapping Brice on the shoulder. "Don't worry, I got a good feelin' 'bout this one."

* * *

Black eyes wrenched open to the sun glaring mercilessly down from its home in the sky, and promptly closed again. Sonia groaned, raising a hand to her pounding head. She felt terrible. Scratch that, she felt _worse_ than terrible, like she'd been run over, backed over, and run over again by an eighteen-wheeler. As if the spearing headache wasn't bad enough, she was dying of thirst, was disoriented and queasy, the metal she felt beneath her had left her back and neck stiff, and she was cold, which was odd and perplexing considering she lived in a damn desert and it was the middle of summer. Lastly, there was a horrible, aggravating snorting noise coming from her right, what sounded like a bear with bad nasal congestion.

Sonia turned her head toward the origin of the sound, wincing at her neck protesting the movement. Trevor was passed out there beside her in the truck bed, mouth open, a limp arm slung over his face. Could that man do anything quiet? She also noticed the two bottles of whiskey wedged between them, one completely empty and the other almost gone, perhaps a mouthful left. It was that strong stuff too, what Trevor had called 'Hellfire' and claimed was illegal in all but two states. So, it was no surprise that Sonia's next thought was one of panic. _Oh, God, what the fuck happened?_

She observed that they were both wearing clothes. His were _always_ unkempt, so she looked upon her own, noticing none of the articles were on backwards or halfway on her person, so it seemed they had never come off. Nevertheless, Sonia focused next on her body and was _finally_ relieved when she felt no 'wear and tear' among any intimate regions. Praise God, Hallelujah, no disgraceful drunken sex with Captain Crazy! It was a fucking miracle, considering he seemed just the type to take advantage and she was just the type to let it happen when she was inebriated. And _boy_, had she been inebriated.

Sonia pushed herself up into a sitting position, bowing her head when the throb there intensified. She patted down her person and groped around the truck bed for her sunglasses but was unable to locate them. They were either under a hundred and seventy pounds of psycho or she'd left them at the Yellow Jack, or...who knows? She couldn't even remember much of last night, only fragments of conversation and laughing at his stupid jokes when the whiskey had started making her feel giddy. The rest was not even a blur, but rather black as oblivion.

Sonia considered waking the man, then thought better of it. Normal(a loose term if there ever was one) Trevor was a handful, she didn't want to experience Hungover Trevor at the moment.

Slipping off the back of the Bodhi, she squinted around at the environment, her mouth dropping open in surprise. Well, what do you know? Somehow they'd ended up at Mount Chiliad's apex, judging by the rocky landscape, the thinner, colder air, the great towering height that gave a near bird's eye view of Blaine County, and the aerial tramway station a few yards away. She'd read somewhere that it traveled from the Paleto Bay area up to the crown of the mountain.

Sonia shuddered as she realized that either she or Trevor had driven the truck up those steep, narrow mountain roads. At night. Completely shit-faced.

Oh well. What's done is done, and at least they hadn't driven off the side of the mountain. Another fucking miracle.

Although the hangover and the altitude made her feel like shit, Sonia still found it rather nice up here and decided to follow the pebbly dirt path that led up to the viewing deck perched upon its little craggy hill. A couple of afternoon hikers stood on it, taking selfies with the wide expanse of sky and land behind them. Their presence made her change her mind and she passed by the deck, heading for the edge of the peak instead, where it dropped off into rocky slopes and spread out toward the endless stretch of sea. She stood there a while, soaking up the sight and taking a few pictures with her cellphone, then she tried to inhale a deep breath of fresh mountain air only to break into a coughing fit. Damn her smoker's lungs.

When she got the hacking under control, Sonia heard the crunch of heavy footsteps behind her, and then a familiar, amused voice said, "That's exactly why you should give up those coffin nails."

"Yeah, that ain't gonna happen," Sonia replied as Trevor stopped beside her, his tattooed hand working a kink out of his neck.

"I'm serious, sunshine. Give 'em up. Take up meth instead. It's fun, it'll make you feel alive. You'll love it, I guarantee it."

She gave him a look. "What's that, your sales pitch? _Yeesh_."

"It's the God honest truth." Trevor jerked a thumb over his shoulder, an eager look on his face. "I got my pipe in the truck..."

"Thanks, but no thanks." She stooped and picked up a few small rocks, hurling one over the edge of the outcropping, watching it tumble down until it was lost against the side of the mountain. "What the hell are we even doing up here? My memory's fuzzy."

"It was all _your_ idea," he snorted. "You, and I quote, 'wanted to look at the fuckin' _stars_ from the top of the fuckin' world'." His voice took on an obnoxious falsetto in an attempt to mimic her. Sonia made a face. Her voice wasn't _that_ damn high.

She pitched another rock over the edge. What he'd claimed didn't really surprise her. She'd been dying to come up here at night to look at the heavens. "I'm surprised you agreed to do it. Don't seem like the star-gazing type to me." Another rock flew, bouncing off a boulder.

Trevor decided to join in on the rock-throwing, bending to scoop up some loose stones. "Yeah, well, there was nothing else to do...after you got us kicked out of the Yellow Jack." He turned his back on the outcropping and hurled a rock at one of the hikers. His aim was true, earning a loud, pained "Yeowch!" from the man standing on the viewing deck. Trevor beamed. "You're quite the mean little drunk, sunshine. And you should probably know, Janet gave you the ax and the honor of being on her 'banned forever' list."

Sonia dropped the few remaining stones in her hand and gaped at him. That wasn't what she wanted to hear. _I'm never gonna keep a damn job here._ "Jesus..._what the fuck happened last night_?"

"Some shit-faced prick started it all," Trevor said with a shrug and pitched another rock at the hiker. It missed this time, bouncing off the surface of the flat information sign on the deck. The hiker looked his way, frowned, then he and his buddy vacated the deck to Trevor's utter disappointment. "Tried to get fresh with you." He put up a hand in a gesture of defense. "Now I admit, I may have gotten a little pissed at his audacity to put the moves on you when you were so obviously with me, and I may have jammed a dart in his eye, but _you're_ the one who went after his buddy with that pool cue. Poor bastard was just trying to help his pal and you beat the living Christ out of 'im...oh, _and_ you threatened Janet with that pool stick and robbed her of two bottles of whiskey. All in all, it was a magical night." He guffawed and draped an arm about her shoulders to pull her close, eyes shining with mirth. "I gotta say it, sunshine, I think I'm in love with you."

Sonia ignored that and pushed his arm off. She knew her judgment could be poor when the sauce was in her, and perhaps she could even get a little wild sometimes, but Jesus God, beating a man with a billiard stick, threatening her boss and robbing her _all in one night_? Janet, who she happened to _like_? She shook her head, refusing to accept it. "Bullshit."

"Bullshit?" Trevor scowled. "I open my heart, express my feelings to you and you call it _bullshit_!?"

"Never mind about _that_, you idiot! I'm talking about the other shit." Sonia shook her head again, still unable to believe it. "It's crazy; it's something _you_ would do, not something _I_ would do."

The man turned to face her fully, raising a brow. "No, we had a good time, which you seem to be in desperate need of, judging by your whole stick-up-the-ass attitude. I don't get it. How is it you can kill a man without blinking, but when you get a little drunk and cause a little chaos _suddenly_ it's all crazy?" He waved his hands around in an overly animated manner.

Sonia crossed her arms at her chest and shook her head. "You wouldn't understand."

Trevor mirrored her posture, frowning. "Don't give me that shit! I'm completely open-minded."

She dipped her head back and sighed at the afternoon sky, debating on whether she should waste her time or not. Then she realized she was already wasting her time with the inward debating. The man would push and push and push until he wore down her nerves and got what he wanted. "I can kill a man without blinking because, for me, it's normal, as easy as breathing. My parents did it all the time; I grew up with killing, I grew up to kill. I was _ten_ the first time I took a life. No, I don't enjoy it. I don't feel anything. It's just...what I know, and as fucked as it is, it's who I am. But that shit I supposedly did last night...well, when I actually _do_ have nights out, I don't particularly beat people to pulp with billiard cues and threaten and rob my employer. So, yeah, it's all a little crazy for me."

He stared at her for a moment, at those oblivion eyes of hers. "Ten? Fuck, even_ I_ hadn't taken a life yet. You're worse than me."

"It may be who I am, but I have boundaries. Principles. I'd never take a child's life, even if it meant my own. And I'd never take the life of..." She grimaced, shaking her head, thinking of something she didn't want to think about. "Family. Can you say the same?"

"Yeah, I can!" he barked, offended. "What kinda fuckin' monster do you think I am?"

Sonia shrugged, staring him dead in the eyes. "I don't know, Trevor. What kind of monster are you? You enjoy the killing, you admitted it yourself a while back. What about it do you enjoy? Your victim's pain? Their screams? The fear in their eyes? Or just watching the life go out of them?"

The way she spoke those words, low and sultry(at least that's what he heard), she might as well have been whispering naughty come-ons in his ear. Mesmerized and aroused, he made some guttural sound deep in his throat and moved all up in her personal space, _this close_ to throwing her on the ground and fucking the holy living Christ out of her. He could've, easily, whether she was willing or not, but that was the thing. Under all the maniacal violence and eccentricity, he was still human, a man who wanted to be wanted, needed, loved, just like everyone else. And here was someone, the first since Patricia, who hadn't run screaming from him, who, despite knowing exactly who he was, tried to befriend him. Someone who could handle him well enough and had no obligations, like a fucking prick of a husband who didn't deserve her. He wanted her to _want_ him; none of that platonic, 'just friends' bullshit, that wasn't fucking good enough. Perhaps with a little time and some charm and manipulation, he could make her. It was going to happen, one way or another.

"Do I take your silence to mean the answer is all of the above?" Sonia asked, bringing him back from his evil thoughts.

"Yeah, that's right," Trevor answered. "So what?"

"If all those things are what do it for you, then it doesn't matter _who_ you do it to. You don't need a preference of victim. We're both monsters, Trevor, but the difference between us is I have boundaries whereas you don't."

He wore a wounded look. "You _actually_ think I'd kill a kid?"

"Yeah, I do."

"You're wrong. I mean, I'll freely admit, I _have_ killed a kid, but I was a kid myself at the time, so it's not what you think."

Sonia folded her arms, giving him a dubious look. "How old were you?"

"Old enough to drink legally," was his vague answer.

"And the kid?"

"Uh..." Trevor sucked on his bottom lip as he searched his mind for a mental image of that brazen Latino boy who'd made the fatal error of poking fun at his _hardly even fucking there_ Canadian pronunciation. "Seventeen or eighteen but a _mature_ seventeen or eighteen."

"So, in other words, you were a legal adult who murdered a _teenager_?"

"Give me a fuckin' break, alright!?" he bristled, throwing his arms wide. "It was only a difference of a couple years; we were both still kids...and he started it!"

"What did he do, breathe the wrong way in your presence?"

"No, smartass, he..." Trevor stopped himself and waved it off. He wasn't about to point out what she hadn't noticed. If she _had_ noticed the accent before, she most assuredly would have made that Latino kid's fatal error, and she would be quite horribly dead. "Not important."

Sonia tilted her head to one side, curious. "Come on, I wanna know. What did he do?" It was about time she got to push him for a change.

"I said," he growled, leaning his face close to hers, hands squeezing into fists. To his surprise, she didn't back away, face and eyes as calm as still water. "It's not fuckin' important."

"I'd say it is. I mean, you're using what he supposedly started to defend your actions. Unless you're lying about him starting it, like you're lying about it not being important. I thought you were an honest guy, Trevor?"

He had to smile. _The goddamned brass balls on this woman..._ "Careful, sweetheart. Be _very_ fuckin' careful."

"It was just an observation, _sweetheart," _Sonia replied, mocking him, returning a smug grin. Perhaps she was getting overeager in her attempt to push him around a bit. It was foolish, brash, and most assuredly dangerous, the very things that made it exciting. The very things that made _him_ exciting. "What's wrong, can't handle being called out?"

Well, if she was going to get _too_ bold, Trevor didn't see why he shouldn't, and he would make some fun use of the close proximity she normally fled from while he was at it. So much for biding his time and charming her and all that crap.

Before she even drew in her next breath, his hand shot up, gripped her throat, and pulled her through that foot or so of space between them. They met at the mouth hard, teeth clashing together, almost painfully so. She surprised him again with a marginal response, not immediately pulling away and, in fact, pressing in a little. But it stopped as soon as it had started and she planted her hands on his chest, shoving him back enough to swipe a palm across his face, her long nails catching flesh. It stung like hell, but fuck if it wasn't worth it, just for the flush of anger he now saw on her once smug face. That'll fucking teach her.

"_Stop fucking doing that_!" she shouted, rubbing a hand across her lips. "What's _wrong_ with you!?"

Laughing with sadistic glee, Trevor placed one hand on top of the other, over his heart. "I'm in _love._"

"You're_ insane_!" Sonia growled through her teeth, eyes ablaze. She whirled on her heels and marched away in a huff, hands curling into stiff, tight fists at her sides.

"Hey, come on! Where the fuck're you going?"

"I'm walking home!" she steamed. It was a lie, and she didn't give a fuck if she'd told him she wasn't going to do it anymore. _Fuck him_. She sure as hell didn't want the sonuvabitch to know where she was really going. Besides, she wasn't entirely certain where she was headed at the moment anyway, only where she was _not_. "And you'd do well to stay the fuck away from me!"

Trevor decided to leave her be. It would work in his favor in the long run if she thought he was taking her serious enough to give her some space. But that didn't mean he couldn't get in one more remark, just to make her a little more mad. "You know, this ain't exactly the reaction I was hoping for when I confessed my love for you!"

"Go fuck yourself with a chainsaw!"

He grinned, relishing that anger and the fact that, just for a second, she'd kissed him back.


	13. Chapter 12: Guns and Bullets

**Chapter Twelve: Guns and Bullets**

* * *

Brice drove them around the liquor store for what had to be the fiftieth time in the past thirty minutes. Rick had assured them a while back that this place was a front for Philip's meth lab. As with all the other information he'd gather while Brice had been behind bars, it was reliable. You could smell the goddamned place from a mile away. Brice was surprised it hadn't been raided by the authorities yet; it might as well have been called Obvious Meth Lab instead of Liquor Ace.

"He been by himself for the past thirty minutes," Clyde spoke up. He sat in the front passenger seat, dressed all in black, a similar-colored balaclava masking most of his features. Brice was dressed the same, as were Parker, the MC's Sergeant at Arms and some prospect by the name of Mason, both men sitting in the back of the unmarked van. "We gonna make our move, we best do it now."

Brice nodded as he pulled the van to a stop across the street from the liquor store, out of view of the second story window where they'd seen a man in a respirator and wearing a rubber apron, passing back and forth in the room up there, what had to be the lab itself. "Rick said there's a back entrance to the second floor. We should go in there. Front's likely locked."

Clyde thumped an enthusiastic gloved fist on the dashboard. "Let's do it!"

As the sun set among a sinister cover of storm clouds, the four, armed men exited the vehicle and quietly hurried around to the back of the building. A set of stairs led up to the second floor where there was a small terrace and a door leading into the building interior. Brice climbed them first with Clyde following behind him and the other two bringing up the rear. He stopped along the side of the door, gripping his pistol tight as Clyde took up position on the other side. Parker stood with him while Mason paired off with Brice. When Brice tried the door handle, he found it unlocked and pushed inward slightly, peering through the crack in the door. What he saw was a small, dingy, empty hallway. Giving a nod to Clyde, he pushed the door open further and slipped inside, moving along the far wall as silently as he could manage. Mason came in after him, followed by Clyde and Parker. The four of them came to a small room where some boxes were stacked up in a corner, a folding table and chairs sat along a wall with a small box refrigerator sitting off to the side of it, humming quietly.

There were two thresholds that led from this room into the next, where the lab and the cook was. He and Mason took up position around one threshold while Clyde and Parker took up position around the other. Brice waited until the cook's back was turned and then moved into the room, the others following his lead. The cook sensed them almost immediately, whipping around in a circle, eyes going wide behind his black-framed glasses. There was a moment of stillness and tensity on everyone's part. Then the man started to reach for something on the table in front of him.

Brice stepped forward, training his pistol on the man. "Don't fuckin' think about it."

The man's hands froze. "Who the fuck are you pricks?"

"We're the nice guys who're gonna give you a ride to your new job," answered Brice.

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Well, it's real simple. I'm in need of a meth cook and you're obviously a meth cook. So, you're gonna come work for me."

The man laughed. "You realize who I work for now, don't you? If you honestly think he's gonna let you get away with this, you're fucked in the head, buddy. And when he gets his hands on you, you're gonna experience what it's like to be _literally_ fucked in the head."

Brice rose a brow. "Trevor Philips is a dead man walkin'; his time's up. But yours...well, that remains to be seen. I can triple whatever he's payin' you, you'll work in a better lab, with better equipment and extra hands. You'll be makin' the fuckin' _best_ meth this county's ever seen. So you got a choice: you can live out your tragically short existence workin' for him in this shithole, or you can live a longer life, make excellent cash and an actual name for yourself workin' for me. What's it gonna be?"

The man stared at him, adjusting his glasses. He seemed to actually consider the proposition, then he scoffed, "Listen, fella, this may not be a fuckin' pristine meth factory, but it gets the job done. The money may not be good and the meth may not be the best, but the man who runs the goddamn show's got the brains-" He pointed to his own head. "For this game. Trevor don't sneak into the competition's labs and offer the cooks deals to come work for him. _He wipes them the fuck out_, just like he's gonna do to you. He ain't a dead man walking, he's a one man fuckin' army. And I know where I'm gonna be standing when the shit goes down. On the winning side. So you can take your fuckin' offer and _cram_ it, buddy!"

That did not please Brice. "I see. Well, I chose to be a fair man by givin' you a choice in this and I'm gonna stick to my guns." He rose the pistol in his hand, aiming between the man's narrowed eyes. "You got another choice. You can come with us, or I can put you the fuck down right now."

"Fat fuckin' chance!"

The man overturned the table he stood in front of it before Brice even knew he was going to do it. He was forced to dance back to avoid all the chemicals and glass containers that came crashing to the floor. The cook dropped down behind the table, which sat on its side, and he'd must've had a gun waiting for him under it, for the next thing any of the four men knew, they were rushing from the room as the cook blasted at them with a carbine rifle, laughing. The walls were so old and thin that the bullets ate clear through them, forcing Brice and the others down the nearby stairwell for some kind of solid cover.

"That crazy fucker's gonna shred us at this rate! Or he's gonna hit somethin' in that lab and blow us all to kingdom come!" Clyde complained. "Fuck this shit!"

"No!" Brice shouted at him, blood boiling. "He don't wanna cooperate, then he fuckin' dies! Philips' operation still takes a blow! I'm gonna fuckin' get _somethin'_ out of this bullshit!" He lined himself up in the stairwell against the wall, peering around it. He could hear the man's steps thundering around on the second floor, the gunfire having ceased. Brice leaned out, rose his gun toward the top of the stairs and waited, his angry breaths hissing out through his teeth.

The moment he saw movement, he fired blindly. It was a good shot, a fucking lucky one. He saw a stream of blood jet through the air as the cook shouted in pain and came crashing down at the top of the stairs, clutching his rifle and holding his other hand against the inside of his thigh. A hideous amount of blood poured through his fingers and Brice knew he'd hit the guy's femoral. He was as good as dead.

But the doomed man went on fighting. With clenched teeth and a whole lot of fucking will and determination, the cook gripped his carbine rifle with both hands and let it loose on Brice and the others as he pushed himself up the wall on his good leg. "Motherfuckers! Hell's gonna be coming for you! You're all gonna fuckin' _burn_!" he shouted as struggled down the stairs, his carbine's bullets tearing through the stairwell walls.

"Go!" Brice shouted at the others. "He's done!"

The four men hurried down the rest of the stairs, dodging bullets. They dodged bullets all the way outside, where it was now raining. The projectiles tore through the store front window, clattered into the side of the van and shattered the passenger window. Brice hurried into the driver's seat as Clyde hopped in the passenger side. Parker and Mason threw open the back doors and jumped inside.

"You sure he's done?" Clyde asked, ducking his head down as the bullets still punched into the side of the van.

"His fuckin' goose is cooked," Brice assured as he started the van. "He was bleedin' everywhere, too much for a gunshot wound unless it hit something major. Hit him in the thigh, must've got the femoral."

"Femoral's the second largest artery in the human body," Mason spoke up from the back, bracing himself as the van took off. "It gets severed and you're shit outta luck. You probably got a couple of minutes, if that, before you bleed out."

Clyde looked back over his shoulder at him, his expression incredulous. "How the fuck you know all that?"

Mason shrugged. "My sister's a doctor."

Brice slammed a fist down on the dashboard as he steered with his other hand. "Fuck! Can't believe it fuckin' went down like this! This wasn't supposed to fuckin' happen!"

"Relax, Murph," Clyde said. "Look, I'll ask around, see if somebody knows a cook you can get in touch with. This is Blaine County, there's more meth cooks than there are fuckin' cacti."

"Not _good_ ones, Clyde. This guy, he wasn't exactly a fuckin' artist, but he was the best the county had to offer outside of my own cook."

"Yeah, well, sometimes you gotta make do, y'know? Nothin' else you _can_ do, unless you're gonna fuckin' renege on your plan?"

Brice gave him a look. "What the fuck? Of course I ain't reneging! It's happenin' one way or another. If I'd ever let a little stumblin' block stop me, I never would've gotten anywhere."

"Glad to hear it, 'cause if you were gonna renege on the plan, I woulda had to kill ya and that'd've put me in a state, 'cause I actually kinda like ya." He put his hands up in defense. "But not like a fag or anything."

Brice rolled his eyes.

* * *

Storming off had seemed like a good idea at the time. Unfortunately, Sonia hadn't really thought the whole thing through in her moment of mixed frustration and confusion and anger, and now some two hours later, she was hiking down a steep trail that sliced through one of the many Mount Chiliad slopes, the harsh afternoon sun beating down on her. She was without water, her head was still pounding from the hangover, and her shirt was soaked in sweat and clung uncomfortably against her torso. On occasion, she passed by ominous _Beware of Mountain Lions!_ signs. It might have been a better idea to express her anger at Trevor _after_ he'd driven them back down the mountain.

_Fuck._

Then there was the other thing...that thing she'd done earlier. That horrible, horrible thing, three seconds of stupidity and madness she couldn't undo. As if that wasn't bad enough, that _kiss-stealing_ bastard sonuvabitch would have noticed what she'd done, and she had no doubt in her furious, tangled mind that he was going to take every opportunity to use it against her.

_I kissed him back._ She cringed and took her frustration out on an innocent rock on the ground, booting it way the hell down the trail. _Fuuuuck._

What had possessed her to do that horrible, stupid thing she had no idea, the answer as elusive as the Lochness fucking Monster. Sure, she could admit, there were things she liked about the weirdo, things she respected and found intriguing, but it wasn't like she was physically attracted to him. At all. In fact, that steaming pile of madness had done nothing but repulse her from day one. A person doesn't kiss another person who repulses them, especially when that repulsive person also happened to be a psychopath. It just doesn't happen, unless you were _insane_. And she wasn't insane. And she was still repulsed by him. At least, she was pretty sure she was...

_Fuck._

It did no good to think about it now, not in her hungover, near-dehydrated state. She would be able to think more clearly when she got a chance to rest and got some aspirin and water in her.

By the time Sonia reached the end of the trail, the sun was riding the rugged peaks in the west and ominous cumulonimbus clouds were rolling in off the Pacific Ocean, giving the sky a dramatic cast of brilliant bright golds and oranges and sinister dark blues and grays. There was a gas station just off the main road and Sonia went inside to purchase a bottle of water and a packet of aspirin, then hung around the magazine rack while she hydrated and cooled off.

Her mind wandered back to that _horrible thing she'd done_ and she came to a conclusion. Prior to it she had been pushing the man's buttons, flirting with danger, because it was fun and satisfying to give him a taste of his own medicine, and maybe she was a tad bit self-destructive. It had been a tense, exciting moment, for sure. When that _thieving prick_ had stolen that kiss, yes, she had responded...to a prior _moment_ and its lingering excitement. It was a heat-of-the-moment kind of thing; that was the most reasonable answer, as it certainly had nothing to do with him.

"Hey," the store clerk called to her, bringing her out of her thoughts. "Either buy it or get out. This ain't a damn library."

Sonia looked down at the magazine in her hand, some psychology periodical she must've picked up in her absent-mindedness. The glossy cover was littered with words like 'Repression' and 'Denial' and 'Self-Deception'. She made a contemptuous noise, wondering why the hell she'd picked up something so ridiculous, distracted or no. She'd never had any respect for the field or the ones who worked it. Psychiatrists were just greedy bullshitters in cahoots with the pharmaceutical industry, turning lives inside out and upside down, _ruining_ them to line their own fucking pockets. She put the mag back on the rack and left, suddenly feeling a lot more irritated.

Eventually, she found her way back to Sandy Shores just as the sun neared its rest. She didn't bother calling for a cab. Having hiked down a mountain, a couple more miles wouldn't kill her and she could use the time to herself. She strolled along Algonquin Boulevard under a light sprinkling of rain that soon turned into a downpour as thunder rumbled off in the distance and lightning rent the clouded twilight. Sonia rose her face to the sky as the fat, soaking droplets washed away the sweat and dirt that stained her like sin, like past mistakes and foolish impulses.

A sudden resounding pop briefly cut through the steady slap of rain on asphalt. It was not thunder. It was a sound Sonia knew well, the call of a gun.

Hand instinctively reaching for the grip of her pistol, Sonia stopped and glanced around the slick street, which gleamed under the harsh, flickering, yellow glare of a nearby street lamp. There was nothing around but a liquor store and a gas station, sitting along the left side of the road; buildings as small and distressed as the rest of Sandy Shores. There was a white, unmarked van parked across the street from the booze shop.

Then a steady stream of gunfire rang out, what was undoubtedly from an automatic rifle. It went on and on for a while, then stopped. Then started again, the loud _rata-tat-tat_ filling the world until the store front window burst outward in a shower of glass and the door flew open. Four men garbed in black from head to foot, wearing balaclavas over their faces poured out onto the sidewalk, dodging a hail of bullets. Projectiles punched into the side of the van and took out the passenger window as the men threw themselves into the vehicle and took off. The van blazed up the road in the opposite direction, fishtailing on the slippery concrete, but maintaining control as it disappeared into the stormy night.

She wasn't certain what she'd just witnessed, perhaps a botched robbery. Those seemed to be prevalent in this area.

Sonia approached the entrance to the store and saw a groaning man sitting on the floor in a rapidly spreading pool of blood, leaning back against the checkout counter. His face was pale and one of his hands clutched a carbine rifle while the other, stained in gruesome red, held a cellphone. He caught sight of her, the light fixtures in the ceiling gleaming off his glasses as he stared up at her and went to raise his rifle, hand quaking.

Sonia put her hands out. "Easy. I'm not a hostile."

The man cracked a pained smile and let out a feeble laugh, the eyes behind his glasses losing their luster. "He's gonna...ah!" He hissed through his teeth as a wave of pain took him, then he started up with that feeble laugh again. He seemed delirious. "He's gonna be...pissed. But I...I didn't...take the deal. I coulda...I..." His head lolled forward then, chin resting on his chest.

Sonia knelt down in front of him and reached for his neck. He wasn't gone yet, but his pulse was slow and thready. She looked him over, spotting the gunshot wound in his inner thigh, blood still pumping out of it in weak spurts. Sonia shook her head. With the location of the wound, the amount of blood the man was sitting in and what was still coming out of him, the bullet must've hit the femoral artery. He would be dead before an ambulance got there.

She was about to rise to her feet and vacate the crime scene when she noticed something on the digital face of the man's cellphone, a list of contacts. One of the names was highlighted. _Trevor_. No surname, but one wasn't needed. Along side the name was a small photo of the man she knew with some older woman. It seemed the dying man on the floor had tried to call him just before she'd entered the store.

She reached out and took the cell from his limp fingers, using the hem of his shirt to wipe away some smudges of blood on the device. She then hit the dial button and brought the cell up to her ear just as the line clicked over.

"Speak!"

"Hey, uh, it's me."

There was a momentary pause, and then, "Sunshine? The hell you doing calling me from Chef's cell? I wasn't aware you two were..._acquainted_." There was a sharp, accusatory note in his voice. "What the fuck is this? I leave you alone for a couple hours and you've gone and hopped into somebody else's bed behind my back again? My fuckin' _employee's_ bed, at that?"

"Trevor," she growled, annoyed.

"Don't you 'Trevor' me. They're all_ fair_ questions. How come you never try to jump my bones? You know how horrible and insecure that makes me feel? Do you even _care_ how I feel?"

"Are you _seriously_ trying to guilt me into sleeping with you?"

"Yes, I_ seriously_ am. Is it working?" His voice was nothing more than a low coquettish growl, vibrating through the cellphone receiver.

_Shameless idiot._ Sonia rolled her eyes and got back on point. "So, this Chef - who I've _never_ slept with, by the way - is he a stocky guy, mostly bald, mustache, wears hipster-ish glasses?" She wanted to be sure. There was always a chance the cellphone might have been dropped by one of the men in black and the dead guy had picked it up as she'd come upon him.

"Sums him up. Why?"

"I think you better get over here and see this for yourself."

"Oh, she sounds so _serious_. Okay, sunshine, I'll bite. Where are you?"

"Liquor Ace off Algonquin."

"_Shit_." He sounded unpleasantly surprised, and then he just ended the call without another word, so she could only assume he was on his way.

Sonia leaned against the sign post outside the store to wait, and she didn't have to wait long. The man got there in what had to be a world record, braking his truck right at the curb. He strode over to her, already soaked from the rain on the short drive there. The grimy white shirt he wore clung to him like a second skin, accentuating lean, toned contours Sonia hadn't paid any attention to before and couldn't stop herself from noticing now. _Ugh, stop it._

She hastened to focus on his face, because that was less attractive, especially with the expression that was on it now. And because she would never hear the end of it if she got caught staring. She tried to think of something to say and all she could manage was an awkward-sounding "Hi." It was so fucking _high school_ that she immediately wanted to kill herself. Thankfully, however, Trevor was fucking oblivious to all of it.

"You mind explaining to me what in the fuck's going on?" he demanded. "And how exactly you knew where my meth lab was when I haven't said shit to you about it?"

"Actually, I didn't know this was where your lab was, but the answer to your first question is inside, laying on the floor in a massive puddle of blood."

His brows drew together, then he turned away and marched into the store, stopping abruptly when his gaze fell on the corpse. For some moments, Trevor merely stared at the dead man, wordless, his face curdling. Sonia stood akimbo at his right, her gaze also on the recently deceased.

"Shot in the thigh," she said. "Bullet hit the femoral and passed too deep to cork the wound. Lucky shot, or an unlucky one, depending on how you look at it. He bled out in a couple minutes."

"Yeah, I can fuckin' see that," he snapped, turning to face her with a ferocious look. "Now you're gonna tell me exactly what happened."

Sonia explained what she'd seen earlier, which did nothing to ease the man's simmering temper. In fact, it reached boiling point. Red-faced, he kicked over a nearby shelf with an almost incomprehensible string of shouted profanities. Bottles of liquor smashed all over the floor, leaving a mess of broken glass and puddles of alcohol.

Sonia frowned. The man was just asking for a stroke. "Take it _easy_, Trevor."

"Don't fuckin' tell me to take it easy!" he yelled as he started to pace, boots grinding through the glass on the floor. He slipped in a puddle of alcohol and, out of reflex, Sonia grabbed his arm to steady him. Trevor tore away and aimed a finger at the corpse. "You know who the fuck that _was_!?"

Well, she wasnt a _complete_ idiot. "Considering you called him Chef and he died in your meth lab, I think it's safe to assume he was your cook. Suddenly it's not looking like a botched robbery as I first thought. Yesterday you blew up a meth lab. Today your meth cook gets iced. That can't be a coincidence. It's retaliation."

Trevor didn't have to consider that. Of course it made perfect sense. His line of work was not without its..._nuisances_, and yes, unfortunately, sometimes those nuisances slipped through his fingers and got to live to see another day. Sometimes those same nuisances grew a hefty pair of steel balls, decided that they would in fact retaliate against whatever hell he saw fit to rain down upon them, and thus they graduated from nuisances to _threats_. And, of course, there were only two people he could think of that fit that bill. The Murphy brothers. "Those two ballsy fuckin' pricks! They better savor this small victory while they can! They want a war, they're gonna get one of biblical fuckin' proportions!" He stormed through the door and into the rain outside, heading for his truck.

Sonia followed. "Where are you going?"

"To track these sons of bitches down! They sure as fuck ain't gonna be lounging around at home, jerking off and watching television." He slid in behind the steering wheel, slamming the door shut behind him.

"What about your guy? You're just gonna leave him in there to rot on the floor?"

Trevor scowled at her through the sheets of rain. "Ron can handle it," he dismissed. "Now get in the fuckin' truck!"

As she moved around to the passenger side, Sonia suddenly remembered something from a while back. "Drive over to my place," she said as she settled into the seat, pulling the door shut.

"What'd I just fuckin' tell y-"

"I think I know how to track them down," she cut him off. "Or at least one of them."

Trevor gave her a confused look as he started the truck's engine and fed it some gas. "What in the fuck are you talking about? How?"

"I have the older brother's cell number. So I'm thinking I set up a 'date' with him, then deliver him to you."

Trevor gave that some thought, then grunted. "Eh, that's..._surprisingly_ not a bad idea. Could work, assuming he don't know you work for me."

"I _slave_ for you," she corrected. "Working entitles actually being _paid_. Anyway, I don't see how he could know. I haven't spoken to or seen him since that one drunken night."

Trevor looked at her again, curious eyes roaming her face. "Yeah? Why not? You held on to his number, so..."

Sonia shrugged. "Never got around to it. You started taking up all my time."

Trevor braked the truck abruptly, shooting her a strong look of mixed anger and injury. "'So, the truth finally rears its ugly head, huh? That's what I am to you, someone who's just _wasting_ your precious fuckin' time? You don't enjoy my company, _fine_, all you had to do was fuckin' say so. We can go our separate ways. _Easily_." It was a lie and a bluff, but she would never know that.

"That's not what I-" Sonia cut herself off and tensed up when he leaned across her lap to grab the door latch, pulling it and then pushing the door open.

There was a deep scowl on his face when he leaned back into his seat. "What're you waiting for? Go, get the fuck out!"

Sonia sent a scowl right back, pulling the door shut. "Calm your shit, Trevor. That wasn't what I fucking meant. Stop taking everything I say as an insult."

"Then stop making everything you say sound insulting!" he fired back, stomping down on the gas pedal.

The truck lurched off, nearly side-swiping a man driving a covered golf cart on the slick street. The rain was coming down in torrents by the time Trevor pulled into the driveway, accompanied by frequent flashes of lightning, the deep drum of thunder and strong gusts of wind that made the palm trees that lined the road shake and bend, swept garbage in eight different directions and knocked over lawn furniture. When it stormed in the desert, it didn't fool around.

Sonia noticed an old, rusty BF Injection parked in the driveway as she exited the truck and hurried up the stairs. She assumed it belonged to this Ron fellow Trevor had charged with Mrs. Weatherby's care-taking. It certainly didn't belong to the old bat herself.

When she opened the front door, she found Mrs. Weatherby sitting on the couch with a balding, bespectacled, haggard-looking man in a red, checked shirt. They were enjoying some casual conversation over a game of Boggle. That was until Trevor stepped around Sonia into the house, tracking mud all over the carpet. The man on the couch hopped up and nearly tripped over a corner of the coffee table while Mrs. Weatherby scolded Trevor, "Were you raised in a barn, boy? Look atcha, trackin' mud inside, drippin' all over the carpet. Get them mucky shoes off 'fore you make any worse!"

Trevor looked abashed at being berated, or as abashed as he could get. "Sorry, Mrs. Weatherby."

He toed his boots off and left them over by the door. Sonia did the same, as it was _her_ house despite what everyone else seemed to think and she had no desire to make a mess of it. Anymore than it already was.

The old woman arose from the couch with the red-shirted man's aid. "And none of that 'Mrs. Weatherby' pish posh. It's Ruth from here on out." She then hobbled off to the bathroom with her walker.

"Everything's peachy, boss," the red-shirted man addressed Trevor, eyes wide, hands fidgeting with the hem of his shirt. "I got her bed set up in the spare room and kept her company just like you wanted. She whooped me six times in Boggle."

"Good, good. Now you're gonna get over to the lab. There's a little, uh...'clean up' job that requires your attention."

The man nodded and grabbed his rumpled fishing cap off the couch, sitting it on his head. "You got it, boss." As he headed for the door, he stopped in front of the woman, cocking his head and giving her a careful look. "You...you're Sonia, right?" He stretched his hand out to her in an effort to be polite. "Trevor's told me all about y-"

"_Now_, Ron, before I rip your fuckin' face off and wear it as a hat!"

So much for that handshake. Ron flinched at the man's voice and lurched past Sonia through the door as if the seat of his pants had caught fire. "Yes, Trevor, I'm going! I'm going!"

And then he was gone, his little rusty bucket of a car sweeping out of the driveway.

Sonia stepped inside off the stoop, regarding Trevor with a smirk. "So, you've been telling your friend about me, hm?"

The man sneered at her, because _of fucking course_ she was going to throw that in his face and laugh at his expense. "Oh, yeah, he knows all about how _dishonest_ and _treacherous_ you are."

The smirk never left her face. He was just upset because she'd stumbled upon something he didn't want her to know, courtesy of his friend. She almost felt sorry for Ron, as Trevor may very well make good on his threat of wearing his face as a hat. "So you obviously think about me when I'm not around. I honestly don't know whether to be touched or creeped out."

That only deepened the sneer on his face. He opened his mouth for some cruel retort, but Mrs. Weatherby chose that moment to return from the bathroom with a couple towels draped over her walker.

"Now you two come and dry off before you catch your deaths. I'll put a pot of coffee on."

Sonia came over and grabbed the towels, tossing one over to jerkface. "Thanks, Ruth." She toweled her dripping hair off as she headed into her bedroom for some dry clothes and the note with Brice's cell number on it.

"So, this is what your bedroom looks like," said Trevor from the threshold, looking around the room with a disinterested eye. "Real fuckin' dull, but I bet if these walls could talk, they'd have a shitload of stories to tell, right? About all your drunken one night stands?"

Sonia scoffed as she rummaged through the suitcase she still hadn't gotten around to unpacking yet. "You know, for someone who thinks I'm so horrible, you sure are fucking jealous. What exactly is it that you're jealous of, the _one_ man I slept with or the fact that it wasn't you? Or both?"

He stepped into the room, peeved, hands curling into fists. "Let's get one thing straight, princess. I ain't jealous. And yeah, you _are_ horrible, but so am I. That's the point. We're fucked, damaged people; we got in common what puts us at odds with the rest of the fuckin' world. We understand each other and we can handle each other's shit. You and me, we go together like guns and bullets and you fuckin' _know_ it."

"No, I don't know it."

"Bullshit!" he called her out, pointing at her. "You kissed me back earlier! So, what was that about, huh? Did I just fuckin' _imagine_ it?"

_Fucking motherfucker!_ Sonia knew that was coming, she fucking _knew_ it, but despite that foresight, panic still bubbled up in her gut. "Yeah, you did. Wouldn't be the first time you've imagined shit."

"Ooh!" he laughed without humor. "So you're gonna lie to yourself about _that_, too? Guess I should've expected as much. But you know something, sunshine? I fuckin' get it now. I get _you_. When the bullets come flying at you, you don't bat an eye, and I know you ain't half as afraid of me as you should be. But when you gotta _feel_ something outside your fuckin' comfort zone, you build your little fortress of lies and excuses and hide behind them. You may be tough as nails, sunshine, but you're still a fuckin' coward. The worst kind of coward, at that, hiding from the shit you shouldn't be afraid of."

"You think you've got me all fucking figured out, don't you? You don't know _shit_ about me, Trevor, least of all about what I'm really afraid of. But I know you, I know what you're doing and why you're doing it. It just tears you up that I don't cower in fear when I'm around you, doesn't it? So you gotta dig into me, you gotta find something that makes me afraid so you can hold that power over me, because that's all you fucking care about!" she accused. "You want everyone to tremble in terror at your goddamn feet!"

"Right!" he shouted back, getting in her face. "'Cause I'm just the cliched, one-dimensional psychopath! For your information, the only time I want you at my feet is when you're sucking me off!" He thrust a finger under her nose. "And furthermore, I happen to _respect_ the fact that you ain't one of the goddamned Rons of the world!"

Sonia said nothing, merely searched his face for any sign that he was bullshitting her. All she saw staring back her was anger and some degree of personal injury. If he was lying, he was an expert at hiding it.

"I'm gonna go change," she announced, turning away to gather her clothes together and head off for the bathroom.

The way she so abruptly and calmly changed gears left him disgruntled, struggling for a response. It was like she'd completely forgotten that they'd just been screaming at each other not two minutes ago. "What...Is that all you gotta fuckin' say? I don't even get a 'Oh, I was completely fuckin' wrong about you, Trevor' or "I respect you too, Trevor' or 'I'm sorry for my _unjustified_ accusation, Trevor. Please, allow me make it up to you with a blowjob'?"

Sonia was glad she was turned away from him, as the high-pitched, mimicking tone of his voice got to her and she couldn't fight off a smile. He was such an amusing idiot sometimes. "I'll admit there's some things I respect about you, and there's a small chance I could be wrong about my _reasonable_ accusation. Take it or leave it. That's all you're getting."

She closed the bathroom door behind her, not waiting for a response. She locked it just to be on the cautious side, then peeled off her wet clothes. After she dressed in a pair of dry undergarments, a blue tank top and jeans, she came out of the bathroom to the sound and sight of Trevor shouting at Ron through his cellphone, pacing around her bedroom. "I don't give a fuck _what_ you do with the body, Ron, just get rid of it!" He didn't seem to care that he and she weren't the only two in the house. Hopefully Ruth Weatherby had also gone a bit deaf in her old age while she had gone senile. Otherwise someone was going to have a lot of explaining to do.

Sonia shut the bedroom door behind her as the shouting fest finally came to an end with Trevor shoving his phone back into a pocket. She pulled out her own cellphone and sat down on the bed, reaching to the nightstand where she'd left Brice's note. "So, I was thinking I take Brice out on a star-gazing date somewhere in the middle of the desert. It'll be nice and secluded so you can skin him alive - or whatever gruesome thing you're planning on doing to him - without the risk of witnesses. And the location's a convenient final resting place. Sound good?"

Trevor folded his arms at his chest, frowning. "Star-gazing's supposed be our thing...but yeah, sure, that'll do." He plopped down on the edge of the mattress next to her. "I gotta say, I'm kinda touched that you're whoring yourself out for me. Proves my earlier point, too." He grinned. "You must got it bad for me if you're willing to go this far."

Sonia met his gaze, her face expressionless. "I'm not whoring myself out. I'm only doing what you seem to think I do best, and maybe I do. Stabbing people in the back."

He shrugged. "Yeah, but you're doing it _for_ me and not _to_ me. So, it's perfectly okay."

She laughed without humor and shook her head. "Of course it is."

"You got a problem with this now? You have a drunken one night stand with this asshole and now you _care_ if you have to stab him in the back? Is that what I'm getting here?"

"No, it's just-"

"Just nothing," he cut her off. "You're either on my side or you're not. Which is it?"

Sonia looked at him again, at the disturbing intensity in those brown eyes. "I'm still here, ain't I?"

Trevor reached down and tapped her phone. "Then _make_ the fuckin' call. And put it on speaker. I wanna hear every word."

She did so, then dialed in the number from the note. Trevor planted a hand behind her on the mattress and leaned over. The line rang a couple of times before it finally clicked over.

"Yeah? Who's this?" Brice answered. His voice was unmistakable; a deep, rumbling bass, though laced with anger.

"Take a guess, hot stuff," Sonia flirted.

Trevor looked at her and silently mouthed 'hot stuff' with a disgusted expression. She shrugged and rolled her eyes.

"I ain't in the mood for guessing games," the man barked out, irritably.

"It's Sonia. You know, we met at the Yellow Jack, had an amazing night of sex. Ring any bells? You didn't forget me, did you?"

"Oh...yeah, 'course I remember. It's been a while."

"Yeah, been busy. You know how it goes." Sonia cut to the chase. "So, I was wondering if you were free tonight. I got this kinda crazy idea for a date, thought I'd go get us a case of beer and we could drive out into the desert, watch the stars...and, if you're up for it, fuck under them."

Trevor gave her a thumbs up and silent 'nice touch'. She waved him off, annoyed. Even quiet, he couldn't shut the fuck up.

"Listen, Sonia," Brice replied, and by the tone of his voice, she knew he was going to reject her. "As much as I would enjoy fuckin' you again, I got some shit on my plate right now. Serious shit. Rain check?"

"Is everything okay?"

"Fine, nothin' you need to get involved in."

_If only you knew how deeply involved I already am._ "Are you sure? I mean, I could come over to your place, help you out with whatever it is. I don't mind, and...well, I'd really like to see you again."

"I'd like to see you again, too, but this shit...I gotta handle it myself. Call me in a couple days, alright? We'll go fuck under the stars. We'll fuck until the sun comes up."

"Mm," she purred for effect, deciding to play not only Brice, but Trevor as well. Another dangerous game, but one she intended on winning this time. "I can't wait, hot stuff. I'm gonna be thinking about you when I touch myself later tonight."

"Yeah?" Brice growled. "You gonna imagine my cock inside you?"

"Oh, God, yes. That massive cock splitting me in half. _So good_." She felt the man at her right tense, felt his eyes burning into her.

"You gonna say my name when you come?"

She moaned and bit down on her bottom lip as she ran a hand along her inner thigh. "Baby, I'm gonna _scream_ it. Wherever you are, you're gonna hear it. The whole fucking world's gonna know who's making me come."

"Goddamn-" The rest was cut short, due to Trevor yanking the phone from her hand and stabbing angrily at with a finger to end the call.

"That's fuckin' enough of that!" he declared, tossing the phone behind him on the mattress.

"What the _hell_, Trevor?" Sonia demanded, holding back a grin. Fully coaxing that jealousy out into the open had been fucking child's play.

"_You_ tell _me_! What the fuck was that about!? You were supposed to be talking him into a date, not having fuckin' phone sex with him!"

"I was_ trying_ to make it believable; I was enticing him and it was working."

He shot up from the mattress and aimed an accusing finger at her. "It was working on _you_! Jesus Christ, you were practically fingering yourself to that shit right next to me!"

Sonia burst into laughter. "Wow. And this is you _not_ being jealous, huh?" She had to rub it in; it was her right after his 'coward' bullshit earlier. For all his fucking talk about her lying to herself, he failed to acknowledge that he doing exactly the same thing.

"Don't you fuckin' laugh at me! Fuck you!" Trevor steamed and marched off for the door, because he suddenly did _not_ want to be there anymore. He was confused, thrown for a loop, not quite sure who he was more angry with, her or himself or that other prick.

"Trevor, come on, don't get mad," Sonia tried, but not very hard.

"_Fuck you_!" The door slammed behind him.

Sonia fell back on her bed with a sigh and stared at the ceiling for a moment. Then she burst into laughter again. _That'll fucking teach him._

* * *

**A/N:** Heh. Yeah, so that happened. And I killed Chef. Sorry, Chef. So, this looks to be the last chapter I can upload for a while. Still having problems finding an affordable internet provider similar to one I'm going to lose by the end of the week. Sigh. I'm really disappointed right now. But, as I said, I'm obviously going to keep on writing this, and hopefully, if the universe is kind, I'll be able to upload new chapters sometime in the future. Also hoping this story won't be forgotten, but...shit happens, people move on, etc. I love you guys, I really do, and I appreciate all the reviews and such. That all being said, I guess I'll see ya when I see ya.


	14. Chapter 13: Cooking

**A/N:** Dear Readers, sorry for the exceedingly long delay on updates. I'm still without the internet(and how I've survived this long, I have no idea – lol) but I found out my local library has WiFi, so I'm hoping I can update a little more often than four months. I'm also in the midst of trying to move, and that's a time-consuming pain in the ass. Anyway, I'm not making promises, but I'll try to get the next chapter up within the next two weeks. As always, you guys are awesome and I thank you for your saintly patience.

* * *

**Chapter Thirteen: Cooking**

* * *

Sonia stole a car from a parking lot after doing some routine grocery shopping and took it on a cross-county pleasure trip. Car jacking wasn't exactly her cup of criminality, but she had grown bored and restless over the last couple of days, and that had got her dwelling on things; namely, Lupo and the trial, her continuous struggle with heroin addiction, Marshal Schmidt's son, who, as far as she knew, was still in a coma, and that stupid thing she'd done on Mount Chiliad. And those thoughts only served to torment her.

She hadn't seen a glimpse of or heard a peep from Trevor since the night of the 'Phone Sex Incident', and having no legitimate employment to fall back on, Sonia had been left with few options to occupy her time and mind, such as watching the crap on television or subjecting herself to Mrs. Weatherby knitting infantile clothes and harping on about the child she insisted Sonia reproduce with Mr. Philips, because she wanted a grandchild one day, which she would not be receiving from her army-bound son any time soon—or _ever_, considering he was actually dead and interred at a construction site, though the old woman wasn't aware of that. Sonia had decided she would much rather regress to common thuggery than participate in any of that absurdity.

So there she was, flying down the freeway in a black Bravado Gauntlet with the windows down, the wind in her hair, rocking out to AC/DC's _Highway to Hell _at max volume. It was an enjoyable experience, although it could never compare to having a gun in her hand. Nothing could. It was simply where she was at home, where she felt secure and in control.

After a couple circuits of the county, Sonia drove the Gauntlet back to her house and parked it in the garage. She hadn't solely stolen it for the quick thrill. It was a two birds, one stone kind of thing. She needed a car, and if she didn't have to pay for one on the government's meager financial aid, all the better. It would likely be reported stolen, but she doubted the deputies would put much effort into looking for it. It was a big county and they had bigger problems. Plus, if anything did happen, she still had Commander Cain at her beck and call.

As Sonia was retrieving the bags of groceries from the back seat, she heard a vehicle pull in behind her in the driveway and then the squeak and thunk of a door opening and shutting. She didn't bother to see who it was, already having a good idea. It wasn't like she got a lot of visitors and she had a feeling the man would pop up again sooner or later.

Putting on a small grin, Sonia turned to face him, juggling the brown bags full of foodstuffs. "I was starting to think you were..." Her voice faded out, that smile wilting like a dehydrated flower.

It wasn't him. It was his lackey Ron, standing in the dirt and gravel space that served as her driveway, his clunky, rust-coated BF Injection parked behind him.

"Hi, Sonia."

"Uh...what's up?" It wasn't a casual response but an actual question, as she figured Ron wouldn't be here unless something was up.

"Trevor's got a job for you," he informed. "He also wants to know if your, uh, boyfriend made contact with you yet. He told me all about the plan he came up with, to lure out that Brice guy using you. Pretty smart, right? Trevor's a damn genius when it comes to-"

"Yeah," Sonia interrupted, raising a brow. "You can take him down off the pedestal, Ron. That was actually _my_ plan. And he could have told me all this himself. Never stopped him before."

"Well, he's down in LS right now," Ron explained, "Wade fucked up at the strip club, so he's sorting him and the mess he made out. Anyway, he'll be back later today, so we should really get over to the lab."

Sonia had no idea who this Wade was, though she was certain she'd heard that name before. But she was more curious about what this job entailed. "Why?"

"I'll explain on the way." The man fidgeted with the edge of his dirty, red shirt and shifted his weight from foot to foot, as if he simply couldn't stand still. "We should really go, right now."

"Okay, gimme a sec. I got ice cream that needs to be put away."

"Fine, hurry up. We really need to do what Trevor wants, when he wants it. It's never smart to displease him."

_But it is fun_, Sonia thought as she turned and started up the long steps to the front door, but she said, "Right. Don't want him throwing one of his childish temper tantrums now, do we?"

Ron stepped on the bottom stair and looked up at her with a face full of gravity. "Those tantrums get very violent very fast, Sonia."

"That doesn't make them any less childish."

"You're missing the point."

Sonia ignored him as she worked the front door open and stepped inside. Ruth sat on the couch knitting a tiny sweater out of yellow yarn while a game show ran on the small box TV sitting across the room. The elderly woman didn't try to engage her with talk of children today – _Thank God_, Sonia thought – as she went off into the kitchen to put the groceries away.

As soon as she put the ice cream in the freezer, Ruth's voice rang out from the living room, "Well, if it ain't lil' Ronnie Jakowski! Ain't you a sight for sore eyes! Why don't you plop down over here and we'll have ourselves a lil' Boggle tourney?"

"I'd love to, Mrs. Weatherby-"

"_Ruth._"

"-Uh, _Ruth_, but Sonia and I have some work to see to right now. Maybe later?"

After putting the rest of the food in the fridge, Sonia came out into the living room to find Ron standing near the front door with his hands on his hips. "We're gonna be gone for a few hours," she said to Ruth. "You gonna be okay on your own?"

She waved a withered, heavily veined hand through the air. "I got my game shows and my knittin'. I'll be jus' fine."

"Okay. Don't touch the stove while I'm gone. There's still half a pan of that rigatoni left if you get hungry; all you gotta do is heat it up in the microwave. I also got you that prune juice you like; it's in the fridge. Oh, and don't forget to take your pills. See you later, Ruth."

Sonia left the old woman to her knitting frenzy and her game show, stepping through the front door.

"We need to hurry," said Ron, closing the door behind them. "We got a lot of work to do in a short time."

"We?" she asked as they headed off for his car. "I thought this was supposed to be my job?"

"Well, it is, but you've probably never done it before, so you gotta learn how to."

Once they were in the vehicle, Ron turned the key in the ignition and the engine turned over with a cough, a short plume of thick exhaust smoke jetting from the tail pipe.

"So, what is the job?" asked Sonia.

"You're gonna be cooking meth."

Sonia shot him a look, not quite sure she'd heard him right. "Uhh...run that by me again?"

"With Chef dead, we need a cook, so you're gonna cook for us."

"Whatever happened to just being an extra gun?" she sighed, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I was comfortable with that; it's what I'm good at."

"Well, someone has to do it. We need to keep moving product before these Murphy assholes get a leg up and we start losing more customers. Trevor does the heavy lifting, I do recon and gather resources, and Wade manages the strip club – or _tries_ to – so that leaves you. Besides, it's about time you moved outside your comfort zone, in all things." Ron looked at her, almost apologetically. "Um, those are _his_ words, not mine."

She made a sour face and muttered, "It's called a comfort zone for a reason."

Ron braked his BF Injection outside the liquor store, where the remnants of the gunfight from a few nights ago could still be seen. The front door and window had been boarded up until the glass could be replaced. Shards of old glass were still scattered across the sidewalk, gleaming in the afternoon sun.

The pair exited the vehicle and headed around to the back of the building, climbing the stairs to the second floor. When they came to a door, Ron produced a key from a pocket of his cargo shorts, stuck it in the lock and gave it a twist. "Here we are." He pushed the door open and allowed her to enter first.

Sonia gaped at the room she found herself in. Half the ceiling was missing, exposing the skeletal roofing support and the electrical wiring. The stained wallpaper, what little still remained, was peeling off the walls, and the floorboards were rotten and creaky. If all that wasn't bad enough, there was garbage strewn everywhere and a foul, chemical stench permeated the stodgy air in the room. Towards the back was the cooking area, which consisted of nothing more than a couple of folding tables set up with grimy lab equipment and glassware.

"Well," she said, "I suppose we should get to it, assuming we can find 'it' in this mess. You do know what you're doing, right?"

"Sure," said Ron, a tad obligingly. "I've seen Chef cook a thousand times, even helped him once or twice."

Sonia pulled a face. "Once or twice?...That's reassuring."

The man patted her on the shoulder, then quickly retracted his hand. "Don't worry. We'll do fine. I mean, we _have_ to."

The pair spent several hours making ruined batch after ruined batch until Sonia got the hang of it. She found that cooking meth wasn't unlike cooking in general, in the sense that it was just knowing the nature of the ingredients(in this case the many chemicals), how they reacted with each other through each process, all of which Ron explained well enough. Sonia also found that she enjoyed it as much as she enjoyed cooking a meal at home, which was her favorite pastime. More than anything she liked having something to focus on, to keep her restless mind busy and away from certain thoughts.

After they finished yet another batch, Ron inspected the crystals, holding one piece up to the light. It was far from glass quality, but it wasn't half as opaque as all the rest had been. "I think we may have a winner."

"I'll be the judge of that," spoke a gravelly voice from across the room.

Ron all but jumped out of his skin, bumping the table he and the woman stood at. An empty glass beaker toppled off and shattered on the floor as the agitated man's employer strode over to them.

Trevor smacked Ron backside his head, knocking his hat off in the process, then snatched away the crystal shard from his hand. "Ron, you ungainly little shit, watch what the fuck you're doing!" he snarled. "You break something in my lab again, I'm gonna break your fucking neck."

"I'm sorry, Trevor," bleated Ron as he grabbed a risque magazine off the table and bent down with a wince to sweep the shattered glass into it.

Trevor uttered a dismissive grunt as he inspected the chunk of crystal, holding it at eye level between thumb and forefinger. He reached for his back pocket with his empty hand, pulling out his glass meth pipe and a lighter, tucking the former in the corner of his mouth. He retrieved his pistol from his waistband next and placed the chunk of ice on the table, using the butt of the gun to smash it into smaller pieces.

Sonia pulled down the protective mask covering the bottom half of her face and ran a forearm across her sweaty brow as she watched him. She noticed some discoloration along the curve of his stubbly jaw, a reddish-pink smudge. _Is that...lipstick?_

The man dropped the near to clear pieces into the little bulb at the end of his pipe, then proceeded to heat the underside of it with his lighter, drawing on the mouth piece as he did so. He held the stimulating smoke in his lungs for a moment, then slowly let it seep through his nose and mouth. He took a few more hits, the lines on his face deepened by concentration. It was several moments before he said anything.

"Amazing."

Sonia's brows rose, unsure of whether that was meant to be genuine or sarcastic. "Okay...?"

"Far cry from perfect, but not the complete shit I expected out of you either," Trevor spoke with a cold, business-like tone. "Congratulations, you've managed to cook meth that's a step above gimcrack quality."

"So it's saleable then?"

"Saleable?" he snorted. "You don't pay much attention, do you? I said it's a _step_ above shit quality, so of course it's not fucking saleable. What I want, what I expect, is at least a clone of Chef's product. Think you can handle that?"

Sonia folded her arms at her chest. "I can cook, I have no problem with that, it's just...maybe you should hang around. I need you." She tensed as she realized that phrasing had more than one implication. "Not you...your help...I need your _help_. You can't just stick me in a lab and expect me to pull a chef d'oeuvre out of my ass. I mean, yeah, you did, but it didn't work out, did it? You can't really be surprised." And now she realized she was prattling. "I don't know meth like you do, so yeah, uh,...I could use the expertise." Sonia cleared her throat and found some point on the floor to stare at. _Great job, idiot. That definitely wasn't awkward._

Trevor wordlessly eyed her for some moments. Sonia could feel that piercing stare all over her, as if phantom hands were stripping her down to nothing.

"What?" she snapped, her composure slipping again. "Stop..._looking_ at me."

Ron rose up then and scuttled off to discard the broken glass, glancing strangely over his shoulder at the pair.

"You," Trevor finally spoke with a tone of suspicion, "are acting really fucking weird. More than usual."

"I'm not acting weird. _You're_ acting weird. Now, are you gonna help me out or not?"

"Hmmm," he uttered as he looked up at the missing ceiling and stroked his chin in an effort to appear ironically contemplative. "_Not. _I gave you this task to see what you're capable of outside your precious comfort zone, and I'm sure I ain't the only one who's fucking amazedthat you managed to not _completely_ fuck it up. Don't ever expect me to coddle you, sunshine. You don't need it, you won't learn from it even if you do, and I can certainly find better shit to do with my time."

Sonia scowled at him, raising her chin and narrowing her eyes. "Right, sure, like terrorizing the county and murdering _whomever_." She eyed that smudge on his face again, and for some reason she couldn't explain, it fueled her temper. Her body shifted into a stance of hostility, hands tightening into a pair of fists. "Oh, and let's not forget the _prostitutes_. They ain't gonna fuck themselves now, are they?" Yes, she was angry, and her anger was justified. All she wanted was his company. Was that too much to fucking ask?

She surprised herself. _Wait. What the hell? I've been in this lab too long; the fumes are fucking with my head._

"Exactly," replied Trevor with a taunting smirk. "Better shit."

"Well, I certainly don't wanna keep you from all that. Have_ fun_. Enjoy the STDs and the senseless killing."

"Wow, listen to you," he piped, his ugly mug plastered with amusement. "_Look_ at you. You're positively _green_!"

"I am not!"

Trevor laughed. "I'm fucking flattered, sweetheart, but you have nothing to be jealous about." He reached out and caught her hand, dragging it against his chest, over his heart, and holding it there. "I may frequently stick my cock in prostitutes and various others, but my heart belongs to you."

_Argh! Loathsome prick._ Sonia took her hand back, feeling heat rise to her face. "Assuming you even have a heart," she spat, "if I wanted it I'd reach down your fucking throat and rip it out of you."

He seemed to get a kick out of that, his mouth spreading out into a Cheshire cat-like grin. "Oh, would you?"

"I am not jealous," she insisted again, huffily, as she folded her arms back at her chest.

"Well, you're certainly not angry and bitter." Trevor pressed a finger to her lips as they parted for a no doubt smartass response. Her eyes widened a bit at the contact. "I'm being sarcastic. You're _clearly_ angry and bitter. If that ain't symptomatic of jealousy, I don't know what is."

Sonia slapped his hand down. "It's not! I just thought you would-" She shut her mouth so quick she bit her tongue. _Fine_, so maybe she wanted his company, maybe she had kind of fucking missed him a little. That didn't mean she was jealous. She was just confused. There was something so profoundly wrong about this, and it wasn't just the fact that it had to do with him. It wasn't natural; it wasn't _her_. She didn't miss people, she never had before; except her parents, but they were her _parents_. None of this made any damn sense.

When Trevor realized she had no intention of finishing that thought, that dumb grin on his face formed into a peeved scowl. "_What_? You got a fuckin' speech problem or something? Spit it out!"

She shook her head. "Never mind, it's not important." If she admitted it, he would make it a weapon and turn it against her; he had before, with that thing she had done on Mount Chiliad. Sonia turned her back on him, signaling that she was done with the conversation.

He seized her arm, jerking her around to face him. A mere foot apart from each other, she tightened up and held her breath, her eyes transfixed on his mouth, as if she suspected it to come crashing against hers. Not exactly an unwarranted suspicion, considering, but that was not his intention. This time. "You got somethin' to say, fuckin' say it, alright? Don't try to feed me that 'it's not important' bullshit. It's important enough to get your panties in a twist over it."

Sonia wrenched her arm from his grip and stepped back, laughing without humor. "Well, that's your goal, ain't it? To make me mad every chance you get?"

"It's one of many goals," he admitted, "but never mind that. Stop deflecting. You're withholding on me and that shit ain't gonna fly. If it ain't jealousy, then what the fuck is it? What're you _hiding _now?"

She opened her mouth to serve another diversion, but her cellphone chose that moment to start ringing inside her jeans pocket. Sonia was grateful for the distraction, though it didn't last long. As soon as she pulled the phone out and got a brief glance of a familiar name on the little digital screen, it was snatched from her hand.

Gritting her teeth, Sonia made a grab for it. "Give it, you asshat!"

But Trevor pulled it high from her reach and hooked an arm about her neck in a tight but unstable headlock in hopes of preventing any future attempts. Across the room, standing in the doorway, Ron scratched anxiously at the back of his neck as he watched the tussling pair, wondering if he was going to have to find another place to hide a body.

"Sweetheart, darling, light of my life," Trevor mockingly cooed. "This is gonna play out one of two ways. You're gonna be straight with me for a refreshing change and _maybe_ I'll be civil and hand you back your phone. Or you're gonna keep withholding, in which case I'm gonna get really fuckin' uncivil and you're gonna be neck deep in sand, watching the tide come in with this phone lodged in your rectum."

"It's your enemy calling," Sonia grunted as she threw her whole weight into his side, catching him off stance a step or two, enough to escape his hold. She ran a hand through her mussed hair, glaring venom-laced daggers at him. "So you got a couple seconds to decide which is more important before it goes into voice mail."

He glanced at the mobile he still held from her reach and saw she wasn't lying. The name Brice was displayed on the screen in bold white letters. Then the phone went silent and a banner reading _1 missed call_ popped up. It didn't matter. "You can always call him back."

"I can," Sonia allowed, "but I won't."

Trevor smiled. It might've been almost nice if not for the thinly veiled threat that accompanied it. "Sure you will, 'cause you know it's not wise, nor is it _healthy_, to piss me the fuck off."

She rolled her eyes. "When are you ever _not _pissed the fuck off?"

"Besides," he went on. "You owe me, and you're gonna repay me by doing whatever the fuck I say."

Sonia blinked at him in disbelief. "_Owe_you...? What are you, high? What the hell do I owe you for? Dragging me into your world of shit? Providing me with an unwanted house guest, who just happens to be the mother of one of the many people you've murdered? You know, I could've had a normal existence here if you hadn't come along with all your..." She bobbed a hand at him. "Whatever. _Trevor-ness._"

"Normal? Like, what, slaving away at some dull, degrading nine-to-five job, then coming home to wither away in front of a television?" He snorted. "Who the fuck are you trying to kid? That's not _you_. I knew what you were the moment I laid eyes on you. We're molded out of the same shit. You thrive on the action, the chaos; you need a gun in your hand and people to kill. I 'dragged' you into my 'world of shit', but you ain't trying to get out of it, sunshine. It's the only shit you know; it's your world too."

He spoke with far too much confidence; he _knew_ he was right. _And you know he's right, too_, a traitorous voice spoke from some deep recess of her mind. _You never once tried to get out of it. You _welcomed_ it. You just never realized it; it's too normal for you, it's where you fit in. You rely on it, and now you've come to rely on him _for_ it. _

The heavy, cold weight of dread dropped down her belly. This was a power she did not want him to have; any amount of power was too much. So, of course, she refused the hell out of it. "No, you're wrong-"

"No, you know I'm _right_," Trevor cut in. "Just admit it, I'm the best thing that could've happened to you. If I hadn't come along, you wouldn't know what the fuck to do with yourself. You screwed up your world when you stabbed your old boss in the back, but _I_ gave it back to you. So, there you go." He snapped his fingers, then shook one at her, putting on an exaggerated look of realization. "Oh, and how could I forget? There's also that little deal we made a while back. Way I see it, you owe me a fucking _lot_."

"I owe you _only _for that deal," Sonia allowed. "But the rest of that nonsense? I don't need you, Trevor. As a matter of fact, I committed a crime a few hours ago, jacked a car from a parking lot. So...there, _in your face._" And she pointed at his face for further emphasis.

Trevor knocked her hand aside. "Yeah, and we both know what made you do it. It's like some weird version of masturbation; taking the edge off the need 'til I could give your felonious appetite some real satisfaction." He produced a smug grin. "Confess it—you missed me, didn't you? Oh, you missed me _bad_."

Sonia wondered now what the hell it was she had missed about him in the first place. It sure as hell wasn't this shit. "Ha! Don't you wish. The past couple days have been like a vacation. You should disappear more often."

"Maybe I should, I probably will. Absence _clearly_ makes the heart grow fonder. Maybe next time you'll miss me so much you'll drop the whole hard-to-get pretense and just fuck my brains out."

"Not even if you were the last man on Earth. I would willingly give my own species a death sentence before I let _that_ thing-" She pointed at his crotch. "—anywhere near me. God only knows where it's been."

Trevor was not deterred by that. Sonia was beginning to wonder if _anything_ could deter him. And yet there was some deep-down part of her that admired his fixed determination, annoying though it was.

"You sure?" he asked, stepping forward into her space. "We can arrange the scenario, sunshine." He reached out to brush that fringe of dark hair from her eyes, to look at them, and stroked a thumb across her cheekbone. He loved those eyes, so damn dark and deep it was like peering into an abyss. They were eyes that had never shown him an ounce of fear, nor looked at him like he was some freakshow or the scum of the earth, the worst of the worst. In some capacity, that made him hate himself less and want her all the more. "What d'ya say – you and me, global killing spree? We really oughta do more romantic shit together."

Sonia smiled as she stroked a hand up his arm, putting it over his hand, where it rested against her face. Her unexpected show of intimacy caught him off guard, making his brows shoot up in surprise and his pulse thump a little quicker in anticipation. Then she yanked his hand away, putting on a scornful expression. "And nothing says romance like exterminating our own species. Oh, yeah, Trev, you really know how to sweep a woman off her feet."

"Yeah, I _could_ sweep you off yours," he bristled, "if there wasn't something standing in the way of that."

"You mean the fact that you're-"

"Not me," Trevor interrupted, stabbing a finger at her chest. "_You_. There's nothing wrong with me. I'm capable of opening up my heart, letting people inside. But you, you cower behind your walls. It's really fuckin' pathetic. I mean, you got this whole stupid prison phobia thing, but you're so goddamn _blind_ you can't see you're already in one—one of your own making."

Sonia stiffened, her eyes narrowing as she attempted to stare him down. "Your ass should have a pair of lips as much as you like to talk out of it. I'm not cowering; I'm not afraid. I'm simply not attracted to you and you can't accept that, so you gotta turn it into something you can accept."

"Sure, sweetheart, that makes perfect sense," he patronized. "Like you _kissing_ me despite the fact that you're, quote unquote, not attracted to me. Now, I'm curious, do you kiss all the men you're not attracted to or...?"

"_It just happened_!" Sonia exploded as a flush of anger and embarrassment rushed to her cheeks. "It...It was just one of those things that happen in the heat of the moment and it lasted a couple of _seconds_! So fuck you, you delusional asshole!"

"Ooh, there it is!" Trevor laughed, eyes locked on hers, which were feral and furious. She looked like she wanted to claw his face off, and woo, boy, did he love it. "_Finally_! You admit it happened. Now just admit you wanted it to and we can move on."

"Argh!" Sonia gripped her hair like she meant to rip it out in frustration, swinging around and putting her back to him.

_No. I'm not gonna let him get to me anymore_, she commanded herself. Sonia took in a deep, calming breath and held it. _He is _not_ gonna win._ When she exhaled, the anger that had been in her a moment ago expelled with her breath.

She turned back to face the man and reached out, snatching her phone from his left hand. "I'm gonna go call Brice now," she informed with a voice as deadpan as her face. Then she was gone from the room, leaving him there utterly disgruntled, like he'd somehow lost at something.

This wasn't the first time Trevor had witnessed that abrupt change in her, from Angry Lioness to Passive Buddhist Monk in no second flat. She was just shutting down on him, he knew, going back behind her walls. And he was goddamned_ fed up_ with it. So, of course, there was only one thing to do about it: knock those walls down like a fucking wrecking ball.

* * *

The call went into voice mail and a prerecorded voice asked him to leave a message. He was short and to the point. "It's Brice. Got some free time in my schedule. Call me."

As he pocketed his cellphone, his brother, sitting behind the steering wheel of his Huntley S, gave him a look. "'Got some free time in my schedule'?"

Brice glanced at him and shrugged. "What's wrong with that?"

"It sounds all fuckin' impersonal and selfish and shit, like you only wanna be gettin' with this chick when it's on your time. Real smooth, B."

"So I'm out of practice," the older Murphy grumbled. "What'd you expect after fifteen years in the cooler?"

"Whatever, man. So, what's the deal with this chick anyway? Just hittin' dat ass or is it serious?"

Brice shrugged again. "At the moment, I don't know what I'm doin'." It was an honest answer. A week or so had gone by since his salacious encounter with the woman at the Yellow Jack Inn and she hadn't bothered to call him for round two, so he'd figured she wasn't interested. That's why he was taken by surprise when she'd called him a couple nights ago with her offer. He wasn't certain what she was after, whether it was a fun fling or something serious, but then he wasn't sure what he wanted either. "I guess I'm just lettin' it play out. What will be will be."

"Sure, man, whatever gets your mind off the business every once in a while. You're a fuckin' workaholic. Seriously need to get out more, bro. Have some fun and shit. And speakin' of that, a homie of mine from LS throwin' a party this Friday..."

Brice tuned him out as he looked out the passenger window, at the pale desert giving way to the fertile farmlands of Grapeseed. Beyond the farms, nestled at the foot of Mount Chiliad, was the residential and commercial center of the community, nothing more than a single, two lane street, businesses on the east end and a few houses on the west. Grapeseed was also home to McKenzie Field, which consisted of a brief dirt runway, a small airplane shed and an old mobile home. It was through this unimposing, rustic airfield that Trevor Philips operated an arms trafficking venture, supposedly with a partner, though Rick hadn't been able to glean any information about him, only that he was a Latino guy in his late thirties to early forties.

Brice thought it wouldn't take much to level the place; a pound of C4 placed strategically on a hangared plane carrying gallons and gallons of gasoline, and boom! Adios, McKenzie Field. But that was for another day, one that would hopefully be upon them soon. Today was about the new lab, which Brice had yet to see. Apparently Rick had wanted it to be a surprise, and Brice was, but for an entirely different reason.

He looked at his brother, who was still prattling on about that party, and cut him short. "Should I assume our meth lab is neighbors with Philips' gun runnin' operation? That's a bold move."

Rick frowned with displeasure. "And back to fuckin' business." He shook his head. "Yeah, a'ight, man, have it your way. It's bold, but it's also dumb, which is why the lab ain't anywhere near that airfield. Ain't taken no chance he finds it. 'Sides, we're plannin' on blowin' up the airfield and shit like that tends to get real fuckin' out of hand, 'cause _you_ get carried away. I ain't takin' the risk our lab gets blown up either."

"I've never gotten carried away," Brice objected.

"Yeah, yeah, you're right. Decapitatin' dudes definitely ain't fuckin' overkill."

Brice made a face at the sarcasm. "I like the assurance that my enemies are truly and totally dead. That, and it sends a strong message to anyone else who might try to cross me...and I like trophies."

"You wanna send a message? Cool. You wanna make sure a dude's completely dead? Check for a pulse, B. It ain't as messy...and it ain't as fucked up as keepin' heads as trophies."

Injury carved itself into Brice's face. "You think I'm fucked up?"

"Totally, but you're still my bro and I love you. Nothin' gonna change that."

"...Thanks. I guess."

The SUV reached a stop sign, where the dirt road intersected with Grapeseed's main street. Rick took a right and followed the street a piece before turning off onto another unpaved road on the left. It wound around the eastern base of the mountain and reached to a little valley, where a miniscule homestead was ensconced.

"There it goes," said Rick. "Braddock Farm, now home to the Murphy brothers' meth lab."

The Huntley passed over a little squeaky wooden bridge under which a stream had flowed but was now bone dry. Rick pulled his SUV onto the property and parked it between the white, ranch-style house and the old barn, the only two buildings on the land. The brothers exited the vehicle, and the older of the two studied the grounds, a hand raised to shade his eyes from the sun.

The land was ugly and barren, though a few trees rose tall here and there, offering a little shade. The house and small barn were badly distressed. Broken shutters hung askew from window frames, the porch was caved in on one side, the home's white paint was chipped and peeling, and the wood beneath was rotting away. Across from the house sat the barn. Quite a few of its wooden planks were missing from the roof and the broad sides, and some of the gaps had been covered with rusty sheet metal. There was a noise coming from that direction, what sounded like the hum of a motor, and there was also a bad stench in the air, one Brice was familiar with. Alice was somewhere nearby, cooking a batch.

The sight of this place was discouraging and it must've shown on Brice's face, for his brother said, "I know what you're thinkin'; it's shit. But that ain't a bad thing, bro. This is a good place to cook meth; it's hidden from view and the fumes from cookin' can't give us away through the environment. There's no nearby water sources that're gonna turn toxic and the plant life can't die off 'cause it's already dead. 'Cept the trees, but we can just cut them fuckers down, sell it off as timber or somethin'."

"How much did this place cost us?" Brice asked.

"Hundred and seventy-five Gs for the land here all the way up to the where the dirt road starts. Fair enough price, considerin' the place's history."

Brice got a confused look. "History?"

Rick grinned. "Used to be a weed farm...'til the competition dumped a shitload of motor oil on the crops. Killed off the plants and fucked up the soil. You can still see it." He pointed to the ground, and yes, there was indeed disgusting, oily muck mixed into the soil. It gave off a muted rainbow sheen under the sun. "Oil soaked in deep. Guess the previous owner didn't wanna go through all the trouble of replacin' it. Just abandoned the farm, accordin' to the real estate agent."

"Alright," Brice said as he put his hands on his hips and looked around at the property again. "It ain't exactly what I had in mind for our lab site, but I like that it's hidden away from the public eye and the land ain't gonna give away what we're up to."

Rick clapped him on the shoulder. "Just wait 'til you see the set up, man. You're gonna love this shit!"

Brice hoped so. It would be nice if something went right for a change. He was still angry and disgruntled over his failure to kidnap Philips' meth chef. The whole thing had been simple to plan out, and once executed, no member of the team had deviated in the slightest. Yet it still went horribly wrong. He had assumed the cook would've jumped at the chance to escape his unhinged employer, but that had been a bad assumption. Brice found it difficult to fathom anyone being so loyal to the likes of Trevor Philips that they would willingly give up their life, but his cook had done exactly that. Brice had underestimated them both, a mistake he would not make again.

Rick led the way into the ramshackle barn, pulling up his sagging jeans. The interior was not in any better condition than the exterior; the walls were riddled with tiny holes, where termites had eaten through the wood and there were more gaps in the roof than Brice had initially seen. The place looked like it had a year of life left to give, if that. It was definitely going to need some work, and soon.

Rick knelt down toward the center of the barn and looked up at his brother. "This right here's why this shitty property is worth the price."

Brice said nothing, only watched as Rick rolled up a portion of a large mat that had been camouflaged to look like the rest of the barn's dirt floor. Underneath was a square of wood with a rusted, metal groove cut into its surface. A door. Rick hooked his fingers into the groove and lifted the door up, revealing a hole with a ladder descending into its bowels. That familiar toxic stench wafted up from it, and Brice could see light down there and could hear someone moving about, humming a tune. He gave his brother a surprised look. "An underground meth lab?"

Rick beamed, obviously proud of himself. "Clever, right? I'm thinkin' the previous owner used it as a grow house or to stash their Mary-Jane 'til it was time to hand it over to the buyers. I figured we might as well do the same thing."

Before Brice could make a reply, his cellphone jingled in the pocket of his jeans. He pulled it out and held a finger up to Rick, a signal for a moment to take the call. "Brice."

"I got your message," the woman on the other end replied. "Sorry I missed your call. I was, uh, busy. You mentioned you had some free time in your schedule...?"

Brice didn't dilly dally. "Tomorrow night, eight o'clock?"

"Sounds good."

"And can you do me a favor?"

"Sure."

"Forget to wear panties."

That made her laugh. "You want me to forget to wear a bra too?"

"If it ain't too much trouble," said Brice, grinning.

"For you, I'd forget to wear anything...but then I might get arrested for public nudity. Don't wanna ruin our first official date now, do we?"

"I was under the impression we were just gonna fuck. Now it's an official date?"

There was a brief pause before the woman answered. "I don't know. There's gonna be drinking, a somewhat romantic setting, and I suspect there'll be some form of conversation, either before or after the fucking. Aren't those the usual elements of a date?"

Well, now that he thought about it... "I guess they are."

"Are you opposed to those things happening?"

"No." Brice sighed, certain he'd offended her. "Look, sorry if I sounded like a jerk, but-"

"You didn't," she interrupted him. "You just got out of prison. I'm sure you're in a place where you don't know what the hell you want. And to be completely honest, I'm in that same place. So maybe we don't need to put a label on tomorrow night. Let's just see where it takes us and go from there."

"You read my mind."

"Tomorrow then. I'll remember to forget my undergarments, but I'll be wearing a dress. You're gonna have to work for it a little."

Brice laughed. "Fair enough. See you then, Sonia." He pocketed his phone and turned to his brother, who still knelt beside the hole in the barn floor. "Well, let's see the lab. I hope to fuck Alice knew enough to set up some kind of ventilation system down there."

Rick rolled his eyes as he maneuvered himself onto the ladder. "C'mon, B. She ain't a fuckin' moron. We worked on it yesterday. Ran a system of pipes from the lab to the surface, and they're all connected to an industrial vacuum. Sucks the fumes right out. Ain't perfect, but it gets the job done."

"We?" Brice questioned, though his face held a look of knowing. "Yeah, I noticed you've been spendin' a lot of time with her lately, bein' extra helpful, even goin' so far as to stand up for her when I thought she blew up the previous lab. Somethin' goin' on there that I don't know 'bout?"

Rick scoffed. "Fuck nah, man. Ain't shit goin' on." And with that, he hastily descended into the hole.

Brice followed. When he reached the earthen chamber below, he found Alice, garbed in her white protection suit and respirator, moving around an array of tables laden with the required equipment, everything set up in her usual method of efficiency. The busy bee glanced in the direction of the Murphy brothers and pointed out a table near the ladder, where two respirators lay. "Safety first."

Brice grabbed them, handing one off to Rick. Protected against the residual fumes the makeshift ventilation system had yet to suck out of the chamber, Brice set about with his inspection. He liked what he saw, the high-quality glassware and lab equipment he had insisted she purchase. Then he noticed the small plastic tubs stacked up against an earthen wall and he looked upon Alice in surprise. "Is that what I think it is?"

"Half the product required for your distributor," she confirmed. "I worked on it ten hours straight yesterday and started again this morning at dawn. Rick's been helping me." She offered the younger Murphy a quick smile. "He's a fast learner."

Brice glanced at his brother. "When did you decide to become a cook?"

"Wanted to get some product made before I gave you the grand tour," said Rick with a shrug. "You said we was strapped for time. Thought it best to strike while the iron was hot and shit."

Brice smiled behind his respirator. "That's one of the many reasons I'm glad you're my brother, Rick. You're always thinkin' ahead."

"Alice is the one who got shit done." Rick looked over at the woman, a grin taking up his whole face and catching in his blue eyes. "She deserves the praise."

The woman laughed and waved him off. "Stop it."

Brice looked between the two with raised brows, focused more on his sibling's goofy grin. _Nothin' goin' on, my ass. Meth ain't the only thing cookin' down here. _

His cellphone jingled again. Brice removed the respirator to answer.

"They're ready to meet," came Clyde's voice through the receiver.

"When and where?"

"Now, at the pier in Chumash."

"You learn anything about these mysterious would-be partners?" asked Brice.

"They're serious. Gangsters, and not the ghetto, hood type neither. The suit-wearin', Italian type."

That gave him pause. "Mafia?"

"You got it. Ain't no small-time family, neither. Money launderin', loansharkin', drug and gun operations, the whole shebang. Their boss owns one of the big casinos."

Brice wasn't sure how he felt about this. While the mafia would be a lucrative partner, they were also a volatile bunch; they could be quick friends, but if their expectations weren't met, they could be quicker enemies. He had enough to deal with. "Okay, I'm on my way."

"Best lead foot it, Murph. These mob types don't like to be kept waitin'."

Brice ended the call, pushing his mobile back into his pocket. He gazed at his brother. "The meet with the LV crew and our potential partners is happenin'. I gotta get over to Chumash."

"You want me with you?"

"No, I'm sure Alice could use the extra hands," he grinned. "And I'm sure you won't mind lendin' her yours...for more than just cookin' crystal."

Rick turned beet red and coughed awkwardly into his respirator. "Man, whatever. I don't know where the fuck you got that shit from."

Brice merely laughed as he headed over to the plastic tubs, dropping his respirator by one. "I'm takin' a pound of the product, a sample for our would-be partners." He pulled the lid off one tub and looked inside. The product was all neatly packaged and ready to be moved when the time came. He lifted out one of the bags and put the lid back in place, then turned to Alice. "Keep up the good work."

The woman only nodded in response, then got back on task.

Brice headed for the ladder, giving his brother's shoulder a pat and offering a suggestion in passing. "Maybe you should ask her out."

* * *

It was a five hour drive to Chumash, due to some light traffic on the Senora Freeway and some heavier traffic on the GOH.

When Brice arrived at the old historic Chumash pier, he parked his brother's black Huntley S along a curbside and headed over to a newspaper dispenser on the sidewalk, dropping the required change into the slot. After he pulled the paper out of the dispenser, he wrapped the plastic bag of meth in it, tucked it under his arm and started across the wooden platform.

It was edging on evening, the sun a globe of fiery orange that bled gold and crimson over the western horizon. The pier was alive with chatter and laughter, with the cry of seagulls and the crash of waves as they broke against the support beams below. People strolled the platform around Brice, lounged on benches or stood at the railings to take in the masterpiece sunset; he saw joggers and dog walkers, couples holding hands, friends shooting the shit, and parents with their young children. His own parents had taken him here once when he was five, what seemed like a thousand years ago now. His mother had been pregnant with Rick at the time and his father had not yet started his long, unstable affair with alcohol. He remembered sitting on his father's shoulders, feeding the seagulls bread crumbs while his mother took photos of them. It was one of the few good memories he had of them, but a memory that was gray and grainy. All the good ones did that, Brice had come to understand. The good memories faded while the bad ones stayed sharp in his mind, permanent as a tattoo.

He found Clyde and the others sitting at a table in a quiet corner outside a pier restaurant. They were engaged in conversation until they took note of his approach. A man in a pressed charcoal-gray suit stood to greet him first. He was a few inches shorter than Brice, slim, and dark-haired and dark-eyed. He had a businessman's haircut and carried himself with a businessman's confidence. Brice knew how dangerous confidence could be and went straight into cautious mode, not wanting to be caught off guard again as he had with Terrell, the explosives guy.

The man in the suit thrust his hand out to be shook. "Brice Murphy?"

He hesitated, looking down at the offered hand, then reached out and gave it a firm shake as he met the man's eyes. "That's right."

"Paulino Pierno. Paul." He gestured with his free hand to the bottle blonde seated at his left. "My colleague Milena Montagna."

Melina was a beautiful woman, but Brice sensed something off about her. Her dark eyes were cold and dead. She didn't offer her hand or a verbal greeting, merely stared unblinking into Brice's eyes. It kind of gave him the creeps.

"I've heard good things about you from Clyde," said Paul. "I hope it's not undeserved praise and this turns out to be a waste of time. I hate to waste time, especially when it costs me money."

Brice smiled as he tightened his grip on the man's hand. _He's already threatening me._ "It ain't. You wanna break into the crystal business, I'm the man you want supplyin' you."

Paul retracted his hand from Brice's and gestured to the vacant chair at the table. "Have a seat." He rose a hand and snapped his fingers to get the attention of a nearby waiter, then took his own chair.

The young, male waiter arrived promptly, a pencil and pad in hand. "What can I get for you gentlemen and lady this evening?"

Paul smiled at Brice and waved a hand for him to proceed first. "Anything you want. It's on me."

Brice had never dealt with mafia types before, but he'd heard a lot about their generosity. It was meant to be disarming rather than a genuine kindness. It didn't work. Brice felt like he was being slapped in the face by Paul's wealth. "I'll pass."

"Are you sure?"

"I didn't come here to eat and drink."

Paul shrugged and focused on the waiter. "I'll have an espresso. They're supposed to be excellent here, so I've heard."

"Better than Bean Machine, sir," the waiter confirmed as he jotted the order down on his pad.

"I'll have a beer," Clyde said. "If ya got it."

"Make it two," the other biker at the table added. He was much younger than his counterpart, with eyes as hard and blue as sapphires and a curly mop of black hair crowning his head.

"Er, sorry, sirs," the waiter replied with a regretful look. "We don't serve beer here."

The young biker scowled in outrage. "What? What the fuck kinda restaurant don't serve beer?"

"Uh...this one, sir. It's a family restaurant, and the owners are Mormon."

The biker shot up from his chair, hand going to the back of his jeans, where Brice had no doubt he kept a gun. "You getting smart with me, you little fuckball? It sounds like you're getting fucking smart with me."

"Oh, for Christ's sake..." Clyde groaned, grabbing the younger man by the sleeve of his leather jacket to yank him down in his chair. "Sit down, Jet. He didn't mean nothin' by it."

"I didn't mean anything by it," the waiter nodded, a nervous smile plastered on his face. "We don't have beer, but I can get a menu you can look over. We have a lot of excellent-"

"Coffee," Jet cut him off. "Black, no sugar." He pointed a finger at the waiter. "I mean it. If it's even a little sweet, I'm gonna..." The finger closed in with the rest to make a fist, which Jet shook threateningly at the man.

"Black, no sugar. Yes, sir. Got it." The waiter scrawled it swiftly on his pad.

"I'll have the same, I guess," sighed Clyde.

"Sure. And for the lady?"

The blonde shook her head.

"Okay. Your orders will be out shortly."

As the waiter hurried away from the table, Clyde complained to Jet, "This is why we can't take you out to public places."

"What?" said the raven-haired biker, putting his hands out. "I didn't like his tone."

"He was just doin' his job."

Jet waved him off. "He was just being a fuckball. And are you gonna just sit there or are you gonna introduce us?"

Clyde rolled his eyes. "Right. Murphy, this is Jethro, president of the Devil's Sons, Las Venturas chapter. Goes by Jet, 'cause he thinks it sounds cooler. He's wrong, of course. Jet, this is Brice Murphy, a local producer and trader in the, uh, drug industry."

The two men shook hands, then Paul spoke as he settled back in his chair, crossing his legs and adjusting his light-gray paisley tie. "Clyde explained your situation prior to your arrival. You're having trouble putting things in motion."

"A few minor hiccups," Brice allowed, "and they're to be expected. Nothin' I can't handle."

Paul rose a brow. "You call the destruction of your lab 'a minor hiccup'?"

Brice spared Clyde a look. _How much did he fucking tell this guy?_ "Like I said, it's nothin' I can't handle. The lab's up and runnin' again."

"Apparently you can't handle it. You have a single man to deal with, from what I understand, and one man should not have been able to blow your lab to smithereens. The whole debacle could've been avoided if you'd had the lab _guarded_."

"Trevor Philips ain't no ordinary man," Clyde pointed out. "I'm 'bout ready to call it: he's fuckin' Satan in the flesh."

Brice looked at him, laughing. "Don't you think that's kinda weird for the president of the _Devil's Sons_ to be sayin'?"

"You know what I mean."

"In any case," Brice resumed, "I ain't convinced he had anything to do with the lab. And I didn't feel the need to have it guarded 'cause the location of it was kept secret; nobody knew 'bout it but me, my brother and my cook. Hell, this prick doesn't even know I exist, that I'm the one makin' moves on his turf."

"How sure of that are you?" Paul asked.

"Sure enough. The only move I made against him at the time was stealin' his distributor, and this distributor likes to keep everything 'bout the business hush-hush, even to his employees. He never spoke my name to anyone."

The mafioso laughed. "That you know of. For a man who's been in this business for as long as you have, you should know better than to overestimate people's ability to keep their fucking mouths shut. Sooner or later, somebody talks. Only the dead can keep secrets, Brice."

"He can't risk talkin'. I'm his only supplier now; if I get fucked, so does he."

"Apparently everything isn't as hush-hush as this distributor thinks. Someone had to tell you about who he is and what he does in order for you to steal him away. If someone within his organization talked, then it's only logical to assume that someone could've given out information about you too. And never forget, your brother and your cook have mouths, too."

"My brother would never betray me," Brice spat, angered by the man's assumptions. "And my cook has too much to risk. The livin' can keep secrets, too, as long as they have somethin' important to lose if they talk."

"Perhaps." Paul waved a hand, dismissing the subject. "You can be sure of this: Trevor Philips knows about you and what you're doing. One man cannot control two volatile markets without having good resources, and one of the best resources you can have is intel. Someone must be feeding him information."

"If that's the case, he don't got a lot of intel to go on. I mean, I was able to sneak into his lab and kill his cook. You think that could've happened if he knew 'bout me?"

"I thought you said the only move you made was stealing his distributor?"

"I said it was the only move I made _at the time_. I killed his cook after my lab was destroyed. The day after, actually. I was originally tryin' to kidnap him, make him work for me so I could force Philips out of the game early and double my production at the same time, but it didn't go as planned. Fucker was more loyal than I thought he'd be."

"I like your style," Paul allowed, "but you don't move fast enough and you're not organized. Then there's the potential problem of other competitors waiting in the wings for this Philips to be put down so they can take control. Those are the real issues here, and I believe my people and I can help you with them. By tomorrow night, we can have your enemy in the ground and his operation with him."

The conversation stalled as the waiter arrived with a tray balanced on his palm. After he served the men their drinks and went on his way, it resumed.

"Alright." Brice sat back in his chair, eying Paul. "How can you help?"

"Partnerships work best when they run like a well-oiled machine, when everyone involved has their own gears to turn and they're focused on turning them. You're trying to turn too many gears on your own; admirable, but not efficient. Clyde informed me about your plan, and it's a good plan, _smart_. What I'm proposing is my people work with Jet and his bikers to put that plan into action and to deal with any other competition that might arise. This will allow you to focus solely on production. Also, if Philips knows about you and your partnership with the Devil's Sons, as I suspect, the last thing he's going to expect is my people. Jet and his men will be waiting as backup while my guys destroy his operations. I would also strongly advise you to keep your lab guarded. You can do that yourself, and Clyde, I'm sure, will be happy to provide you with a few men if you need them."

"I ain't got any problem with that," said the red-bearded biker. "Long as my club gets what it was promised."

Brice didn't like this. While what Paul was proposing was not much different from the way he had done things with his former partners back in the old days, it still felt wrong, like this man was trying to control that well-oiled machine rather than being a gear-turning part of it.

He looked at the mafioso, scowling. "Duly noted. I was under the impression you wanted to do business with me, not tell me how to fuckin' run it."

"It wasn't my intention to overstep any boundaries," Paul assured with faux courtesy. "When I came out here, I assumed you had things handled. I didn't expect you to have so many issues because of one man."

Brice got a strong urge to leap across the table and strangle the bastard with his stupid fancy tie. "That's easy for you to say. You have people, an organization backin' you. You ain't buildin' from the ground up. I am, and Rome wasn't fuckin' built in a day. It takes time, especially when problems arise."

Paul put his hands out. "And I'm offering to help with those problems."

"Yeah," Brice allowed, narrowing his eyes. "And I wonder what you're expectin' in return."

The mafioso shrugged. "Consider it a kindness."

"I'll consider it what it is: a scheme. That's how it works with you people, right? You do me a favor, I'm indebted to you...for the rest of my fuckin' life."

Paul gave him a toothy smile. "You watch too many movies. Now, let's discuss the product, shall we? I hear it's the best on the West Coast."

Brice knew what the man's angle was. In return for using his men to put the plan in motion, Paul expected a cheaper price on the product. That was perfectly fine. Considering whatever family he worked for was just breaking into the meth game, the mafioso had little knowledge of it and that would work in Brice's favor. All he had to do was jack the price up, make Paul _think_ he was getting a discount, when he would be paying more for it than Czarnecki was. _You play me, I play you, you slimy bastard._

Brice reached down at the side of his chair, where he'd put the newspaper-wrapped bag of meth. He sat it on the table in front of Paul. "See for yourself. I usually charge a small fee for a sample, but for you, it's free. The product runs sixty Gs a pound, but I'm willin' to drop it to fifty for the help you're providin'." He smiled nastily. "Consider it a kindness."

Paul laughed as he pulled the paper back and studied the product. "A pound? Do I look like a fucking idiot? The shit they're selling out in LV ain't that expensive. Heroin ain't even that expensive."

"I ain't selling you heroin. I'm selling you a gold mine. And the shit they got out in LV is exactly that. Shit. You wouldn't have flown way the fuck out here otherwise."

Paul studied him for a moment. "Okay, I'll give you that. Why is yours the best?"

"What a user wants in their product is a strong, long high, the strongest and longest that can be achieved." Brice pointed to the bag in front of Paul. "That's the strongest and longest that can be achieved. You sell that to a handful of people in LV, you'll have more customers than you'll know what to do with by the end of the day. Customers for life, no matter the price you put on it."

Paul sat back in his chair, smiling and slowly clapping his hands in a way that seemed patronizing to Brice. "You got a knack for sales pitches. I got an expert back at my hotel room. He'll make sure the product's as good as you say it is, then we'll negotiate a price."

Brice crossed his arms at his chest, staring the man in the eye. "No, the price is non-negotiable. I'm already givin' you a discount, and the product's worth more than what I was originally askin'." He sat forward, leaning on the table. "And Philips...he's non-negotiable too.

Paul looked confused. "I don't understand."

"You're not robbin' me of my right to put that fucker in the ground."

The man's brows rose. "When did this become a personal vendetta? As I understand, you've never even met this man before."

Brice frowned. "That's neither here nor there. Blaine County is mine; it's my home, my territory. It would be a fuckin' personal offense to you too if you came home after a long absence only to find it's been invaded by some meth-addled freak."

"No, I would understand that my right to the county was suspended when I got myself thrown in prison. That's the nature of the business, surely you know that. Someone is always trying to move in on someone else's territory. You can't honestly expect it to stay in your control when you're not around to control it. Let it go."

"Hate to take sides, but he's right," Clyde spoke up. "Just let it go, Murph. Let 'em take care o' that fruitcake, 'cause if you end up gettin' popped, ain't no deals gettin' made. You're holdin' this shit together, man."

Brice got a look of fury and banged a fist on the table, rattling the cups on it. "I don't care! I want him _dead_!"

"And he's going to die," said Paul, "but it's not necessary for you to be the one who takes him out. That's not your gear to turn, Brice."

Brice shot up from his chair and leaned over the table, glaring at Paul. "This was my plan! Who the fuck are you to tell me what I can and can't do!?" Out of the corner of his eye he saw the woman Milena reach into her jacket. For a gun, Brice was certain. His eyes darted to her. "Don't even fuckin' think about it, bitch."

Before the situation could get any more heated, Paul put his hands out and said, "Calm down. I'm not telling you what you can and can't do. I'm telling what you _should _do, what's smart. You don't _need_ to kill him, you _want _to kill him, and risking everything on that want is stupid."

"Fuck you!" Brice shouted at him. "Philips is mine! Get in my way, and I'll fuckin' take you down with him!" He swung around and took his leave, marching with furious strides up the pier.

Paul stared after him a moment, then looked at Clyde with a face as calm as still water but with eyes dark and ominous as a storm.

The biker gave an awkward smile. "He's had a tough week."

Paul sipped his espresso, then said, "If he's not careful, he's going to have a shortened life."

"I'll have a word with 'im," Clyde assured as another man in a suit strode up to the table.

"You do that," said Paul, then he looked upon the suited man standing there. "Was he followed here?"

"No," the suit replied.

"Good. The plan is going down tomorrow night. I want you to shadow him until Philips is dealt with. If he tries to intervene, stop him."


	15. Chapter 14: Challenges

**Chapter Fourteen: Challenges**

* * *

She looked a different woman in a dress, Trevor decided, though that may have had a lot to do with the fact he'd never seen her in one before.

She wore a little black cocktail number that was cut low in the back and showed off a lot of leg; the type of dress that said _I'm classy and sophisticated_, but whispered _fuck me._ He thought it was a bit much for a casual first date, never mind that is was supposed to be a _faux _date; just another one of her attempts to make him jealous, he was sure.

Sometimes that woman was just a damn mystery; he couldn't work out why she was such a goddamned coward when it came to letting people in, and yet she had the daredevil's courage to screw with him, to tempt death and smile while she did it.

As Sonia sat upon her bed to slip on a pair of black heels, she finally noticed him leaning there in the doorway and put on a moderately irritated look. "And how long have you been standing there?"

"Alas, my unfortunate timing denied me the opportunity to glimpse you in your lingerie or in the raw, if that's what you're really asking. You _could _undress again so I don't have to feel like I've missed out."

She stood and crossed the room to her suitcase, where it sat in a corner. She had been living in this dusty miniscule town for a week and a half now, and she still hadn't unpacked yet? He didn't like that; it gave him the impression she was keeping prepared, ready to run off at a moment's notice.

"I'm sure I've got nothing you haven't seen before," Sonia said, as she bent over her suitcase to unzip it, the short skirt of her dress riding up the back of her thighs.

"I've seen plenty..." He tilted his head down low to one side as he spoke, wondering what she wore(or didn't wear, he hoped) underneath. But the dark of the dress and the dim lighting cast too much shadow for him to see the goods. Bummer. "...but women are like snowflakes or fingerprints; no two are the same."

"Identical twins are two of the same."

He made a face. "Are you getting _smart_ with me?"

Sonia pulled a handbag from the suitcase and straightened up to toss it on the bed. "Just pointing out the flaw in your remark."

He grunted, rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. "Just being a _smart ass_. I think you know what I was getting at. Anyway, I gotta ask something. Serious question."

She folded her arms at her chest, sighing. "What now?"

"What're my chances?"

Sonia put her hands out, a gesture for specification. When he didn't give it, she asked, "Of what? Catching an STD, assuming you don't already have one? Dying before you hit fifty? I'd say your chances are exceedingly high."

"Smart-assery is like a fuckin' disease with you, ain't it? And FYI, I'm _dedicated_ to practicing safe sex, and I couldn't give a single fuck if I live to see fifty or the end of the week, long as I die with a gun in my hand, in a blaze of glory. No, what I wanna know is what my chances are of getting you out of that dress and on my cock later."

Irritation made another appearance on her face, more pronounced now than before. "Oh, well, in that case, your chances are exceedingly _low_."

"That's it, only exceedingly low?" Trevor said, grinning. "_Not_ completely nonexistent? So you're telling me there _is_ a chance? Mm, see, I just knew you'd warm up to me eventually."

Sonia felt the hot, unwelcome sensation of embarrassment rising to her face. _Damn it. Why didn't I think to say nonexistent? _

"You don't quit, do you?"

"Well, excuse _me_ for having perfectly natural, human urges."

"Go fuck a pro then; it's not like you're above doing that."

"I have_—_many, many times since we met, in fact. But it's not really the same. I mean, I can imagine you while I'm fucking them all I want, but it only briefly takes the edge off the need. I need to experience the genuine article; something tells me you're an animal in the sack, and I wanna find out if I'm right."

Sonia heaved out a sigh as she looked at the floor and pinched the bridge of her nose. "God, would you just _stop_? If you can't talk about anything else, then just don't talk."

Perplexed and irked by her attitude, Trevor pushed away from the door jamb and stepped into the room, scowling. It was just _weird_ the way she acted toward his advances. Sure, _maybe _he could understand if she was disgusted; it wouldn't have been the first time a woman was repulsed by his aggressive pursuit and blatant sexual propositions. But that wasn't how she acted. She was being dismissive, uneasy, elusive, like he was talking about a forbidden subject. Hell, she couldn't even look him in the eye. It wasn't just weird, it didn't make any goddamn _sense_. She was a grown woman, for Christ's sake; an adult with sexual experiences—quite a few of them, he didn't doubt. She certainly hadn't shown any difficulties participating in phone sex with the enemy—oh, no, he hadn't forgotten about _that_.

"What the fuck's your problem? You're the last person who should be acting like a goddamn prude, considering the countless one night stands you got under your belt."

"Countless is a gross exaggeration," Sonia objected. "It happened _once _while I was_ drunk_. Excuse me for making a..." She stopped, scoffed, put up her hands, shook her head. "What am I doing? I don't need to explain myself to _you_."

"It happened once, here," Trevor scarcely allowed, refusing to let the issue go, "_if_ you can be believed. What about back in Las Venturas, enforcing for the mafia? You'd have me believe you never helped yourself to that Italian sausage party? Puh-_lease_. Or how about when you were living on the streets, pumping your veins full of heroin? That's one expensive habit, sunshine. Panhandling sure as fuck didn't pay for it. You were selling what the Good Lord gave you to every Tom, Dick, and Harry, weren't'cha?" He got a confident, smug look, knowing he was right.

Sonia's face curdled as she stepped into his personal space, holding her head up with barely conserved dignity. "You want me to lay it all out for you? _Fine." _She further accentuated the word with a sharp finger jab to his chest. _"_Yeah, I turned tricks to get by and support my habit. For a little while. I also panhandled, stole into many a pocket, mugged people at knife point, and ran a few small cons. And yeah, I had a few drunken one night stands—_mistakes—_with _two_ of the guys I worked with. I also tried relationships, but they never went past the third date. None of this means I particularly enjoy being treated like a sex object."

"Who's treating you like a sex object?" he asked, ignoring what she was implying. "Tell me and I'll kill 'im."

She rolled her eyes. "You know damn well I'm talking about you."

"So, what, it's a transgression to flirt now, to show a woman some attention, let her know I'm interested in her?"

"You call _that_ flirting?" she snorted. "And you're not interested in _me_. You're only interested in what I have between my legs."

"Partly," he corrected, "not the _only_ thing."

"Could've fooled me."

"Well, _maybe _you'd see something else if your precious walls weren't obstructing the view."

"I see what you show."

"You see what you _want_ to see. And it's much safer to think I'm only interested in fucking you, ain't it? Safe and _easy_."

Sonia huffed and turned away from him, marching to her nightstand. "Think whatever _you_ want. I'm done with this conversation."

"You mean you're running away from it 'cause you know I'm right, and you just can't _stand _that, can you?" he provoked.

"Fuck you," she spat over her shoulder.

"Is that the only thing you think about?" Trevor mocked, laughing. "Now look who's treating who like a sex object."

Sonia grabbed her cellphone off the nightstand, turned, and threw it at him. Hard.

He caught it against his chest, looking a combination of surprised and peeved. "Really? We're at that point already? I woulda thought we'd be at least a month into our relationship before you started throwing shit at me when I piss you off."

Her face wore that Passive Buddhist Monk mask he hated, and she said with a tone that matched that look, "The plan's changed. I'm gonna meet up with Brice at some place called the Mojito Inn in Paleto Bay, around 8:30. I need a way to contact you when I've got him, so put in your cell number."

Trevor might have told her it wasn't necessary since he intended to tail her on her 'date' rather than just sit around and wait until she had the man, though he hadn't actually discussed _that _particular part of the plan with her. But he figured a phone number exchange might come with some advantages; he could send her obscene photos of himself, for one.

"And who gave you permission to change the plan?" he demanded as he went about programming his mobile number into her contacts list. "'Cause it sure as fuck wasn't OK'd by _me_."

"Last I checked, it was _my_ plan," Sonia answered, as she stepped over to the bed to pack away her gun and switchblade into her handbag. "In any case, _he_ changed it. Called earlier this afternoon to tell me he had some shit going on and wouldn't have time to pick me up tonight, so he suggested we connect at the Mojito Inn for drinks, see where it goes from there. I suspect he's probably gonna be late."

He found her number under the phone's settings and memorized it, then looked up at her. "The Mojito Inn? _Why_? There's a perfectly good bar a mile away from here."

She shrugged. "I guess you and he have differing opinions of what makes a good bar. He said it's nice there, cozy..._intimate_." She deliberately dragged the word out.

His jaw clenched. He ground his teeth together. "The _only_ thing he's gonna be getting intimate with is his own cock...when I saw it off and jam it so far up his ass he's gonna be sucking his shit off of it." Trevor squeezed his hand around her cellphone as if he meant to crush it. "Fuckin' turf-invading, distributor-stealing, Chef-murdering, woman-thieving, jumped-up _cocksucker_!"

Sonia was keenly aware of the fact that her fucking with him like this had a high potential of backfiring and causing her demise. But that wasn't going to stop her from enjoying this success.

Smirking, she crossed the room to her vanity table and took a seat on the little cushioned stool, where she busied herself with brushing out her hair.

While she did that, Trevor took the opportunity to snoop through her phone as he paced the bedroom floor, checking the few names on the list, the recent calls and texts. But her social life was practically nonexistent. There were only three names in her contacts; his, Murphy's and a Schmidt, whoever the fuck that was. The only incoming calls were from Brice, and there were a few outgoing calls to him and one number that didn't have a name attached to it. No texts to speak of, sent or received.

He looked through the photo album next. There were some shots of the view from that day they'd found themselves on the top of Mount Chiliad. Boring. Then he found the erotic photos and his mood lightened.

Trevor couldn't help laughing. Out of all the goddamn things he wouldn't have expected to find on _her_ phone it was porn, and yet there it was, staring him in the face. "Is _this_ why you put up the prude façade? Trying to throw me off the fact you got a freaky side?"

Sonia paused what she was doing, giving him a weird look through the vanity mirror. "What in God's name are you talking about?"

Trevor strode over and held the phone in front of her face, the screen displaying a photo of a naked obese man and a bruised up, bound young woman, engaged in anal copulation. The woman didn't look to be enjoying it, and the man had a gaping, wide-eyed, caught-red-handed look. He was also familiar to Trevor, though he couldn't put his finger on where he'd seen him before.

"_That_."

Sonia sighed and grabbed her phone from his hand. "As usual, it's not what you think. It's my get-out-of-jail-free card."

"Come again?" Trevor peered down at the vulgar photo again. Then it clicked. He pointed a finger at the obese man. "That massive tub of lard...I thought he looked familiar. That's the pig who commands the rest of the bacon squad in town."

Sonia nodded, setting the phone aside on the table. "And what they're doing ain't consensual, in case you couldn't tell by her face."

"Okay, I get it. You're extorting him, right?" He grunted, shook his head. "How very original of you. You can take the girl out of the mafia, but you can't take the mafia out of the girl."

She pulled her hair to one side, started running the brush through it again. "It was a good opportunity; it's always advantageous to have a cop at your beck and call."

Trevor ogled the exposed flesh of her neck. It looked rather inviting; he wanted to bury his face in it, inhale the scent of her skin, taste it, leave his mark there.

He dragged his eyes back up to her reflection and said, "_Advantageous_? Are you shitting me? They're a fuckin' farce; inadequacy in uniform. Stop wasting your time and just kill the dickbag. It'll be _much_ more satisfying, and I'm sure the town'll thank you for it."

She stared back at him through the mirror. Her expression was still, that Buddhist Monk mask betraying nothing, but it didn't need to. He saw the Angry Lioness peering back at him from her eyes; there was so much hatred there for this man, the kind of deep, burning hatred he knew well.

She said, "I wanted to kill him, if I'm honest—I almost did—but he's the commander; he has pull, _that's_ what makes him useful. Once he outlives his usefulness, he'll sufferfor what he did to that girl."

"For what he did to that girl," he echoed, confused by the statement. "That _stranger_ who doesn't mean shit to you, but you're making it sound person...al..." Trevor petered out as realization hit him over the head. Of _course_. Why didn't he see it before? Now it made sense; the walls, the weird and puzzling attitude toward sex. "Oh, it _is _personal. I fucking _knew_ there was something wrong with you."

"There's _nothing_ wrong with-"

But he didn't let her finish. "Youwere raped before. A long time ago? And here I was hoping you were just a recovering sex addict striving to stay on the wagon, and _that's_ why you were acting weird and brushing off my advances. But _oh no_, of course not. I get the rape victim. _Jesus_."

Sonia shot up from her stool.

Trevor instinctively squared off, expecting a fight for the insensitive commentary.

But she backpedaled with rigid haste across the room, shoulders hunched and tight. The Lioness was gone, and there was no sign of the Buddhist Monk, either. She stared at him with huge, gleaming, startled and terrified eyes; the eyes of a doe staring into the headlights of a speeding eighteen-wheeler.

He'd seen that look more times than he could count, on other people. It was the raw, petrifying terror he saw in his victims the moment they realized what they were going to be victim to; the kind of fear he reveled in, fed off of.

Only he didn't understand it, _why_ she was looking at him like he was going to...what? Destroy her? When all he'd done was figure out something about her? When she had known from day one what kind of man he was, what he was capable of, and hadn't shown a _scintilla_ of fear for him then?

He found himself disappointed and angry at her. Strange and foreign as it was, he didn't want her fear. He wanted the woman who flirted with death, wearing that fucking smile, the woman who wasn't afraid to stand up to him, push him around, give him a piece of her mind; the one he was utterly enamored with.

"So, who was it?" he wanted to know. "One of those pricks you worked with?"

Sonia folded her arms, holding them tight against her chest as she stared at the carpet. It took her a moment to find her voice. "No."

"Your old boss—is _that_ why you betrayed him?"

"No."

"Some rival of the family you worked for?"

"No. Just drop it, alright?"

"Someone you dated?"

She shook her head. "I don't wanna talk about this anymore."

"A john?"

"I said I don't wanna talk about it!"

"Heroin dealer?"

"_Stop_ it_, _Trevor!" Her tone was pleading.

He was relentless, merciless. "Your father?"

"_No!_"

Anger, but not the right kind of anger. It was disgusted anger, like she was appalled he would suggest such a thing, not the defensive anger that would give him the answer he sought. But he was getting warmer, he felt it.

"But it was someone close? Someone you trusted? Right?"

"_Enough_!" Sonia shouted, hands pressed against her temples, on the verge of losing her shit. "Just fucking _stop_. Leave it alone. _It doesn't matter._"

"Good, then you'll have no problem telling me who the fuck it was!" Trevor snapped, stepping toward her.

She backed away, refusing to let him get close. "It doesn't matter to _you_. It's none of your fucking business!"

He advanced on her again, hands closing into tight, white-knuckled fists. "I just _made_ it my fucking business!"

She kept on the move, escaping to the other end of the room, never putting her back to him."Why? I know you don't give a fuck, so what're you _really_ playing at? Why do you wanna know so much?"

Because he was going to find the sonuvabitch—assuming he still lived—and put a painful, gruesome end to him. Because she was _his_, goddammit, and _no one_ laid a fucking hand on what belonged to him and lived to tell about it, no matter when it had happened.

"How the fuck do you know what I do or don't care about?" he growled as he relentlessly pursued the woman, trying to herd her into a corner. "Have you ever been inside my head!? Or even bothered to fucking _ask_!?"

"I don't need to ask. People like you-"

"What about '_people like me_'?"

"Remorseless, psychotic people who derive pleasure from the suffering of others aren't capable of giving a shit about anyone but themselves."

"Oh, I _see_. So, because I enjoy killing people, I'm not allowed to care about anyone? Not a single person? Because that's, what, the fucking _rule _for people like me? Well, in case you haven't figured it out yet, _sunshine_, there are no fucking people like me. I'm one of a kind. I live by my own rules, and if I wanna kill, I'll kill and if I wanna care, I'll care. I admit I've done the former more than the latter, but I _have_ done both; I've cared and I've fucking _loved_." He aimed an accusing finger at her. "Can _you_ say the same?"

Sonia furrowed her brow and refused to answer. It was only then that she was aware of the wall at her back, and he was standing right in front of her. An icy knot of fear tightened in her belly. She was cornered, trapped.

"Of course you can't," Trevor spoke on, striding into her personal space. "You let whoever the fuck raped you break you, you built your _precious_ fucking walls to hide behind and to keep everyone out. _You're_ the one with the fucking heart of stone."

Though the change in her happened as quickly as flipping a switch, Trevor knew it was coming the moment those words left his mouth. The Lioness came roaring back and he was ready for her.

Face contorted in rage, Sonia lunged through the bit of space between them, taking a wild swing at him with her fist. It stopped short of his face, his hand locked tight around her wrist. She tried to jerk from his grip with no result, puffing out infuriated breaths.

"Did I strike a nerve there, princess?" he taunted, wearing a nasty grin.

"Arrrgh!" she screamed, red in her vision. Her free hand lashed across his face, stinging like a whip. "I hate you!" It was half truth, half uncontrolled emotional outburst; she hated him for glimpsing what she hid behind her barriers, for having the fucking _insolence_ to throw it in her face. "I fucking _hate _you!"

Her anger, her words, the violence to his person—all of those things ignited his temper. Trevor slapped her back, snatched up her left wrist, her right still trapped in his other hand. "Don't fucking do that again!"

She twisted, yanked, pulled, wrestled with his steely grip on her. "_Get your psycho fucking hands off me!"_

"Fuck you!" He squeezed her wrists tighter, fingers digging into the soft flesh, certain to leave bruises in their wake. "Fuck your walls! Fuck your stone heart! Fuck everything about you!"

"You inhuman piece of shit! Why don't you just do the world a favor and go eat a fucking bullet! _Die and rot in Hell_!"

She rammed a knee up for his groin. He angled away in time, the joint smashing into his thigh instead. It hurt, it would probably even bruise, but better his thigh than his danglers. Jesus, why did they _always_ have to go for those?

She seemed unfazed by her failure to render his manhood useless, still shrieking and struggling with him in a whirlwind of fury. He'd never seen her like this before, hadn't thought this much rage even existed in her. She had always seemed so rigidly in control of her emotions, but this...Jesus, and here he thought _he_ was the one with the anger issues.

"You think you're so smart, think you got everything figured out!? You don't know _shit, _you smug, arrogant, clueless_ fuck_!"

Trevor shoved her back into the wall, the impact knocking her breath out. He forced her arms to it, struggling to keep them pinned as she writhed like an eel. "Oooh, sure, _clearly_ you're this pissed off 'cause I don't know shit. I call it how I see it, sunshine. Ain't my fault you can't handle that I'm _right_."

Sonia sneered, drew herself up to match his height, her dark, wild eyes drilling into his. "I can handle anything you got. _Bring it the fuck on, asshole._"

Well, if she insisted...

He leaned in, slow, giving her the chance to back out like the coward she was; he _wanted_ her to, wanted her to give the solid, undeniable proof that he was right about _everything, _wanted to rub her face in it further.

But she didn't back out.

So, of course, he took the challenge a step further and smothered her lips with his own.

It lasted a good thirty seconds before she tore her face away and glared him down like she thought her eyes alone had the power to kill.

"Is that all you fucking got?" she taunted.

Trevor grinned, fiendishly. So, _she_ was going to challenge _him_? Well, challenge fucking accepted. "Oh, I'm just gettin' _started_."

He kissed her again, harder, meaner.

She wrenched away again and laughed, a ridiculing sound. "You're fucking _pathetic_."

He gritted his teeth, growled in fury, frustration, arousal.

He pulled her from the wall, crushed her against him, curled a hand in her hair, yanked her head back. This time when he kissed her, he poured everything he had into it, everything he felt; the burning anger, the frustration of wanting something he couldn't have, the hopeless attraction to her, the instinctive human need to be loved—that one thing he'd been denied his whole life, the one thing he couldn't steal or force someone to give him.

She tried to resist, but try as she might, those things he conveyed were communicating with something buried down inside her, where it had been long suppressed and forced into dormancy.

It was stirring, waking up. It wasn't right; it shouldn't be happening, but she couldn't stop it. It went beyond her control, reaching for him, wanting to communicate back.

And it did; it moved her hands to touch him and worked her mouth, returning what his was giving. It was fucking terrible and strangely wonderful.

When her mouth opened to him, he was surprised and confused by it, this response she'd never given him before, but he couldn't find it in himself to try and figure it out at the moment.

He accepted her invitation, pushed his tongue in, mingled with hers. Her mouth was moist and hot, her tongue soft and eager. He groaned and reached down, grasped at the back of her thigh, dragged her leg up around his hip. He ground his pelvis against hers, let her feel what she was doing to him.

The nails of her right hand dug into the back of his neck as she whimpered in his mouth. He breathed it in and pushed his hand up her thigh, under the skirt of her dress.

She didn't stop him...

Until a shrill tone coming from her cellphone split through the silence and the moment like an ax.

Reality slammed back into Sonia like a tidal wave, bringing with it clarity, and the horror and confusion of what she'd let happen.

She recoiled from him, dropped her leg from his hip, shoved him away, then lurched over to the vanity table. Her hand was shaking as she reached for the ringing cellphone. It was Brice.

"H-Hey."

"Hey. I'm on my way to the Mojito Inn. About forty-five minutes out."

"Okay, yeah. I'll meet you there."

"Can't wait."

"Uh huh...me neither."

She ended the call there and went over to her bed, where she'd left her handbag. Her chest was tight, her breath short. She had to get out of that room. She felt like she was suffocating.

"Was that the soon-to-be dead man?" Trevor asked.

Sonia didn't answer, wouldn't even look at him. She just grabbed her purse and fled the room like a startled deer.

He stared through the open doorway, that earlier confusion coming back full force.

What in the name of hell had just happened?

* * *

_Fuckfuckfuuuuuuck..._ Sonia's mind screamed as she gunned her black Gauntlet from the driveway.

Her mouth was still tingling, still hot and raw from that kiss. She could still taste him. Her stomach was in all kinds of knots. _What happened? What the fuck happened? Oh, Jesus God, _help_ me._

But if there was a Jesus God, he had chosen this most inconvenient moment to go on vacation.

Her shattered nerves cried out for the calming effects of nicotine, but she'd left her cigarettes in the house and she sure as hell wasn't going back.

_I'm gonna have to move now_, _that's all there is to it._

She looked up at the rear view mirror, watched her home dwindle behind her. The further away it went, the safer, the saner, the better she felt. She decided right then and there that she never wanted anything to do with Trevor again. Once Brice was delivered to him, that was it, she was fucking _done_. She had underestimated what he was capable of, how dangerous he really was. He'd done something to her. That kiss...it was like something inside her had come alive and she couldn't control it.

_That's never happened before. I'm always in control of myself. Always._

Her cellphone jingled.

She looked over in the passenger seat, where she'd lain it alongside her handbag.

It was him.

She didn't answer it.

Five minutes later, it rang again.

Again she let it go into voicemail.

Two minutes. A text: _wot the fuk jus happnd between us?_ _answer ur fuking fone – we need 2 talk._

Sonia snorted as she read it. "Like hell."

She braked at a stop sign, waited for traffic to clear, then pulled left onto the Senora Freeway.

Her phone rang a third time.

She turned it off.

Thirty minutes later, the familiar sight of Paleto Bay came into view.

She'd been to the town twice before, but couldn't remember ever seeing a place called the Mojito Inn. She drove around for ten minutes before she finally located it on the main avenue.

Sonia parked her car at an adjacent lot, grabbed her handbag, and stepped out.

It was a cloudy, breezy night, the scent of the sea heavy on the air. A few people walked the sidewalks and vehicles passed along the road. A handful were parked along the curbs. Up the street, a group of people chattered as they waited to be let inside some seedy night club.

The wind tugged at her hair, at the skirt of her dress, as she headed along the sidewalk toward the inn, heels clicking on the concrete. She felt ridiculous in what she was wearing; it was far too formal for even a real first date. But she felt more ridiculous for only now realizing why she was wearing it. At the time, she hadn't even been aware she was doing it; fucking with him, trying to make him jealous. It was weird, as she was usually conscious of her efforts to piss him off. But then this whole night was turning out to be really fucking weird.

Sonia reached the door and pulled it open just as a couple was stumbling out, laughing, arms around each other, totally drunk.

She stood aside to let them stagger by, then proceeded inside.

It was a cozy place, as Brice had claimed over the phone, but more spacious than the Yellowjack. The lighting was low, gave off a warm ambiance, and from speakers hidden somewhere came the soft crooning of some country singer. There were a few booths lining one wall, tables and chairs spattered around the center of the room, and a long, mahogany bar at the back. There weren't many people here; a handful, most of them seated at the counter, where a bushy-bearded man in jean overalls served them.

Brice hadn't arrived yet, so Sonia went to the bar to wait for her 'date', squeezing in between two burly men who looked and smelled like farmers. One stared morosely into his mug of beer, the other looked at her and smiled, showing teeth that were surprisingly all accounted for and only a little yellowed. He had a face like a bulldog, however, and his tanned skin resembled old leather.

She smiled back to be polite, then waved the bartender over.

He grinned genially as he approached. "What can I do ya for, lil' lady?"

"You got Hellfire?" It probably wasn't a good idea, considering only a couple of shots of that shit was enough to turn her into a wrecked mess, but she needed something strong to mend her broken nerves.

The bartender's brows rose. "Hellfire, did ya say? That whiskey's powerful enough to raise the dead. Don't get many requests for it, believe it or not, but we got it in stock. You sure ya don't want sumthin' else?"

"I'm sure."

"Can't serve ya more than a cup of the stuff," he informed. "Regulations and all that."

"That's fine, I only want a shot."

She watched as the man pulled a bottle out from under the counter and ran a rag over the glass to clear away the dust that had settled on it. He sat a shot glass down, opened the bottle, then proceeded to pour from it.

"That's seven-fifty," the bartender said afterward, twisting the cap back on the bottle.

The farmer seated beside Sonia spoke up, "Put it on my tab."

"That's not necessary," she declined.

"Ah, I insist. My momma—God rest her soul—brought me up to be a gentleman."

Sonia forced another polite smile and said, "Well, if you truly insist. Thanks."

The man opened his mouth to say something, but the sound of the door banging open drew his and just about everyone else's attention.

Sonia followed his gaze and let out a groan, pressing a hand against her face. Of course it was _him_. God forbid he should ever stick to a fucking plan.

Trevor had no trouble spotting her and stormed over to the bar, the very image of anger. "So, you're gonna fucking ignore me now? We got unfinished business!"

She scowled and turned around in her stool, putting her back to him. To his very existence.

He wasn't having it, grabbing onto her arm and yanking her out of her seat. "Stop being such a fucking coward!"

"Go to hell," Sonia spat, tearing her arm from his grasp.

The gentlemanly farmer frowned and slipped off his stool. He got between them, put a nonaggressive hand against Trevor's chest. "Look, buddy, she obviously don't want nothin' to do with you, so why don't you just leave?"

Trevor glanced down at the man's hand, then at his face. He didn't say a word. He just grabbed him by the head and slammed his face down into the counter. Once, twice, thrice. There was a sickening _crack_—the sound of the man's nose shattering. Blood spattered the bar.

Patrons gasped, staring with wide eyes, too stunned by the abrupt brutality to move. Even the bartender was frozen in place.

Trevor finished the poor man off by grabbing a half-empty glass mug nearby and smashing it over his head. The farmer slipped to the floor, unconscious. His face was a bloody mess.

"Hey!" the bartender cried out, as his paralysis wore off. "Jesus! What the fuck's wrong with you, man? I'm gonna-"

Trevor swung around to face him, pointing a finger. "Fuck! Off! Or _I'm_ gonna burn this fucking place to the ground with you and everyone else inside!"

The threat got the more sober people moving again. They wanted none of this, abandoning their drinks and scattering for the exit.

"_Trevor_," Sonia hissed, like a mother scolding a misbehaving child.

He turned back to her, glowering. "And _you_ – you don't get to reject my every advance, then kiss me like that, then ignore me when I wanna know what it means! Who the _fuck_ do you think you are!?"

She folded her arms at her chest. "What the hell are you even doing here? You're supposed to be wai-"

"Stop fucking deflecting!" he cut in. "I _deserve _an explanation!"

Her face was blank, still, and with a tone that matched her look, she said, "There's nothing to explain...because nothing happened."

He dropped his head back, grabbed it as if he were suffering a sudden migraine, gritted his teeth, made a loud, frustrated noise at the ceiling. "Not much it didn't! No woman's ever kissed me like _that_ before!"

And no man ever kissed her the way he had either. But it didn't matter. She didn't want whatever the hell was happening, whatever he was doing to her. It felt wrong; it _was_ wrong. The way she had responded to him, it wasn't _her_.

"I shouldn't have done that." Her voice was monotone, like she was citing words written on paper. "I don't know why I did. It just happened. It won't happen again."

Trevor opened his mouth. She spoke over him, denying him the chance to further the issue.

This time her voice was flavored with anger. "I think it would be _best_ to focus on why we're here...or you're gonna lose your last opportunity to take down the man who's trying to run you out of business, who's almost _succeeding_ at it."

"I-"

"The only thing you got working in your favor is the fact he doesn't know I'm connected to you. He's gonna walk in any minute, and if he sees me standing here talking to you, he'll figure it all out. He'll realize he's outnumbered and hightail it. He'll slip through your fingers _again._ Is that what you want?"

"You-"

"_Is that what you want?_"

The door to the inn opened before he could say anything—or try to.

They both turned their head.

It was Brice.


	16. Chapter 15: Shot to the Heart

**A/N: Just a little heads up, this chapter contains a major game spoiler.**

* * *

**Chapter 15: Shot to the Heart**

* * *

Brice Murphy stood momentarily frozen in the doorway of the Mojito Inn, eyes darting back and forth between the man and woman standing in the midst of the establishment, who both stared back at him.

Though it was true he'd never met Trevor Philips before, he still recognized him on the spot from a description Rick had given him a while back. His brother had been very accurate, right down to the prison-quality tattoos, the unwashed, drugged out, vagrant look of him, and the deranged light in his eyes. Rick must have been face to face with the man once, a fact that disturbed Brice.

By the fiery, antagonistic look Trevor directed at him, Brice knew he recognized him too. He just didn't know what to make of his date standing there with his enemy, standing within intimate proximity of him, bodies facing; the way people stood with those they were familiar with.

_They _do_ know each other_, was Brice's instinctive thought. In what capacity, he couldn't say. And it made him uneasy, not knowing how she was connected to the man, not knowing what to expect out of her, whether she was going to pose a threat to him or not, because shit would soon hit the fan; that was inevitable. She'd handled a groping drunk at the Yellowjack, he recalled, and she'd carried a gun on her that day, but how far her fighting and gunning skills went, he just didn't know.

It was the moment Brice had been pining for, facing his enemy, but it had caught him unawares and unprepared. He'd thought he had come here for a good time with a decent enough woman. He carried his bowie knife on him, simply out of a habit that had long ago been fixed into his nature, but he did not have his gun, had not thought he would need a firearm on a date.

He was both outnumbered and outgunned, but he had no choice but to play things out. If he turned away, one or both of them would put a bullet in the back of his head.

So, Brice stepped from the threshold and strode over to the pair, smiling, playing oblivious, as his cerebral gears turned, working out a way to gain an advantage.

"Hey, gorgeous," he greeted Sonia. "You look great, but you didn't have to get all dolled up for the likes of me." He leaned in, a hand on her shoulder, and kissed her on the cheek. His other hand moved under the hem of his shirt, gripping the handle of his knife, where it was sheathed at his belt. His eyes darted over at Philips. "Who's your friend, Sonia?"

"Oh, I think you know who I am," Trevor spat, drawing his pistol from the waist of his pants with one quick jerk. "You business-stealing, turf-encroaching, cunt!"

Brice grabbed the woman the moment he saw the man's hand move, spinning her in front of him, using her as a shield. He kept perfectly behind her, an arm circled around her upper torso, squeezing her against him. In the same instance, he pulled his blade and brought it up against her throat.

He wasn't sure this was going to work, but it _did._

Philips faltered, eyes darting between him and the woman, face contorted in a mixture of confusion, astonishment, and anger. He was just as surprised by his hesitation as Brice was.

And then Brice was surprised for an entirely new reason, when the woman stomped down on his foot with the heel of her shoe, sending a cruel jolt of pain up his calf from his throbbing toes. He cursed and recoiled, arms flailing back to keep his balance as her heel staked his foot painfully in place. The woman followed through with an elbow strike, the joint jamming into his ribs as her foot finally came off his.

Brice stumbled back, groaning, and caught himself on the counter, where the bartender stood, gaping at the scene.

When the woman moved out of the way, Philips had a clear shot.

Brice did the only thing he knew to do. He grabbed a half empty glass mug off the bar and flung it at the man, then bolted for the door.

He _hated_ this, but what choice did he have? He didn't have a chance armed with only a knife and pitted against two foes. It was run and live or die here, outgunned, _foolishly_.

Three shots rang out as he got to the door. His right side screamed as a white hot bullet burned into the flesh. Gripping around the fresh wound, he stumbled through the inn door and out onto the sidewalk, groaning through the pain and anger.

He couldn't believe this. How the fuck was this happening? He gritted his teeth. "_Goddammit!_"

Then, someone yelled at him from across the street, "Murphy! Get your ass in the car!"

* * *

Sergio Vigliotti loved being one of the Pierno family's enforcers, but there was one thing he hated about it, _this_—shadowing people, following and keeping tabs on a target as they went about their mundane life. Boring as watching paint dry. But he was the best at it, had never been spotted by any of his targets, so the task had gone to him.

Sergio was a man of action; he would much rather intimidate or eliminate marks or fuck women than sit inside his Sentinel all day long with only the radio to keep him entertained, but Paul Pierno was the underboss and had the added advantage of being the boss' eldest son and 'heir' to the family business. It wasn't like Sergio could say no to the order he'd been given or suggest it go to some other schmo. That was the kind of shit that got you demoted to foot soldier, or worse, 'disowned' by the family.

So, he'd been following Murphy since yesterday evening. The man hadn't done much between then and now; he'd spent the night at a trashy motel in some little town called Harmony, then come morning he and his brother went to a farmhouse on the outskirts of Grapeseed, where they'd spent most of the day. During the late afternoon, Sergio followed them to Chumash, where they met with Paul again to give further details about Philips and his business. Sergio had gotten a text from the boss after the meeting, with a description of Philips and a few locations he was known to visit, so he knew who and where to keep Murphy away from. Afterward, Brice dropped his brother off at the farmhouse, then drove out to this little bar in Paleto Bay.

The man had been on his best behavior, which made Sergio suspicious. Yesterday, he'd stormed off in a rage when Paul had told him to keep away from Philips, had even gone so far as to _threaten _Mr. Pierno's life, a bold move that would've ended his life right then and there had he been anyone else. It was strange that Murphy hadn't even tried to seek out his enemy yet...unless he was waiting for the last moment, tonight's finale, when Philips' operations went up in flames. Sergio suspected the man would want to be there for it, to see his enemy's face, to let him know he was the one responsible for his ruin. And then kill him, of course.

Sergio checked his watched. It was 8:56 PM.

The plan would be going down in an hour or so.

An hour too long.

God, he was fucking _bored_.

He turned the radio on, switched through the channels, found nothing to his liking, and switched it off.

He checked his watch again and sighed. 8:57 PM.

"God," Sergio prayed, though he wasn't exactly a religious man, despite his Catholic upbringing. "I swear I'll go to Mass every Sunday and make my confessions if you make something happen right now. I'll take _anything_."

And as if in answer, three gunshots thundered from across the street.

Startled, Sergio snapped his head in the direction of the inn, staring through the driver's side window and reaching blindly for the micro SMG laying on the passenger seat.

The inn door burst open and Murphy stumbled out, a hand gripping at his side. He was injured, blood oozing through his fingers.

Sergio cursed as he hit the window switch on the door panel. Paul was going to have his head if Brice got killed on his watch.

As the glass rolled down, he called out to the man, "Murphy! Get your ass in the car!"

The man didn't need telling twice.

As he hurried across the street, the inn door burst open again and a man and woman came out onto the sidewalk, the former armed with a pistol.

Sergio was surprised to see the man matched the description he'd gotten in that text this morning, but he was more surprised by the fact that he _knew_ that woman. "Sweet Virgin Mary..."

It was _her_, the fucking rat who'd singlehandedly taken down the Lupo family.

Then Sergio saw Philips raise his gun, and he leveled his SMG out the driver's side window, shouting at Brice, "_Get down_!"

As Murphy threw himself down, Sergio squeezed the trigger. A spray of bullets flashed across the street, shattering the inn's windows and sending Philips and Marinelli scrambling for cover behind a car parked near the curb.

The people that had been strolling the sidewalks were now fleeing for their lives in a cacophony of startled and frightened screams. Approaching cars braked in a screeching of tires and blaring horns and backed away from the scene, effectively slamming into each other and causing a pile up.

"Move, Murphy! In the car!" Sergio called out, keeping his weapon poised and aimed on the car across the street.

Brice rose to his feet and jumped into the back seat of the Sentinel, swinging the door shut behind him, his face red with rage. "Fuck!"

Sergio fired off some warning shots at the car and pushed his foot down on the gas pedal. As his Sentinel took off, he pulled the gun back into the car and placed it on his lap. Gripping the steering wheel with both hands, he maneuvered the vehicle onto the sidewalk to get around the banged up cars blocking the street, honking the horn to herd fleeing pedestrians out of his way.

Once he cleared the vehicle pile up and got back onto the road, he looked up into the rear view mirror at Brice and opened his mouth to question the man, but Brice spoke first.

"Who the hell are you?"

"Besides the man who just saved your ass? I'm one of Paul's enforcers," he answered. "Name's Sergio." He focused on the road reflected in the mirror to check if they were being pursued. There was a red truck several yards back, but he could still make out who was behind the wheel as well as who was in the passenger seat. "Of course they ain't giving up."

"Don't tell me you thought they would. I'm the man who's been tryin' to put Philips in the ground, remember? I guess your boss was right; he did know about me."

"Yeah, and Paul also told you to stay away from that fucker."

"Fuck Paul!" Brice spat. "He don't tell me what I can and can't do! And for the record, I didn't fuckin' go lookin' for that prick!"

"No?" Sergio scoffed. "I find that a little hard to believe, considering the shit fit you threw yesterday when Paul told you Philips ain't your gear to turn."

"I was goin' out for a drink with someone and he was just there..." Brice grunted in pain. "...with the woman I was supposed to meet."

"That woman I just saw out on the sidewalk with him?" Sergio asked, though he already knew the answer.

"Yeah, that fuckin' _bitch_." He pulled his hand back from his side, looked at the blood staining his fingers and palm, then lifted his shirt to examine the wound, poking and prodding. "Bastard shot me. Think the bullet lodged."

Sergio pulled his suit jacket off, alternating between both hands to steer the car. Then he held the garment between the front seats. "Take it, cover the wound. I don't want you bleeding on my fucking seats. They're Italian leather."

Brice snatched the jacket from his hand, scowling. "Your concern is fuckin' heartwarming."

"Look, pal, if you'd listened to Paul in the first place-"

"And I just told you I didn't go lookin' for Philips! Are you fuckin' deaf!?"

"But you were _going_ to, weren't you? Tonight, when your big plan goes down? You wanted to be there to see his face when his business goes up in flames, and be the one who kills him."

"What the fuck's that got to do with what's going on _now_? It don't fuckin' matter what I was _planning_ to do! Whether I was going after him later tonight or if I'd listened to Paul, I still would've gone out for that drink and Philips still woulda been there at the inn."

Sergio supposed he had a point.

Brice went on, "Paul's guys and the LV crew ain't gonna be able to take him down with his business as planned, so _we_ gotta go to plan B."

Sergio looked up at him through the rear view mirror. "Plan B?"

"An ambush," Brice explained, sitting forward, pressing against the back of the driver's seat and obscuring Sergio's view of him. "Clyde and his crew got the perfect spot for it over in Cape Catfish, and they're already there, so it won't take long to set it up."

Sergio shook his head. "Paul ain't gonna like this. He-" He cut his own words short when he felt a sudden prick against his neck and realized the man was holding a knife on him.

"Then you just tell him I didn't give you a choice," Brice growled in his ear. "I'm gonna make the call to Clyde. You just keep makin' our pursuers think we're tryin' to shake 'em."

* * *

Trevor cursed up a storm as he gunned his truck after the fleeing black Sentinel, weaving his way through the traffic on the freeway, hardly acknowledging the din of honking horns and the dangerous proximity he came to the other vehicles on the road. His mind was racing, racing, racing, one clear, disturbing thought ahead of the rest.

He'd hesitated. He'd fucking _hesitated._

"Trevor?" Sonia spoke from the passenger seat. "Uh...you okay?"

What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? He _never _fucking hesitated.

"Because you don't _look _okay..."

No, that was wrong, wasn't it? He _had _hesitated before. Only once. Fucking Michael. He'd had his chance to kill that cold-blooded _Judas_ when they'd faced off over his grave, that grave full of lies and deceit, that grave that _should've_ held his fat fucking carcass but instead held the decaying corpse of their partner in crime, Brad. In the end, he couldn't do it. In fact, there had been a desperate, infuriated, despairing piece of him that wanted Mikey to put _him_ down. Put him out of his fucking _misery_.

"Shit!" Sonia gasped, gripping hard to the edges of the passenger seat. "You almost hit that eighteen-wheeler!"

Now he'd hesitated again, and for what? To spare the woman who was never going to fulfill his deepest desires because she was a fucking _coward_? God, he really was insane. And stupid_. _And God, he _hated_ her for that cowardice, for making him fall in love with her and not even having the decency to feel the same, for completely fucking him over.

Trevor gritted his teeth and smashed a fist into the truck's horn. "Fuck!" He shot her a penetrating, _infuriated_ look. "This is your fault! It's all _your_ goddamn fucking fault!"

Sonia made a confused face. "_What_?"

"I had that fucker right in front of me! He was as good as dead! And I fucking _hesitate_...'cause of _you_!" He ground the word out through his teeth, squeezing his fingers tight around the steering wheel and wishing it was her goddamn _neck_. "You fucking _fucked_ me, and not in the way I would've liked!"

She stared at him, eyes wide and lips parted, apparently at a loss for words.

The only sounds were his angry huffing, the heavy rumble of the truck's motor, and the car horns screaming all around them.

Sonia looked away and cleared her throat. "Listen, Trev-"

"Fuck you! Just..." He clenched a hand into a tight fist, rose it as if he was going to hit something again, then dropped it back to the steering wheel. "Don't fucking say _shit _to me right now, alright? I swear, if this fucker gets away because of you...urrgghh! Lord help you, 'cause I won't be able to help what I do."

"Just _listen_-"

"What part of 'don't fucking say-"

She latched onto his arm, digging her nails in. "I know the guy who drove off with Brice!"

He looked at her then, surprised, suspicious. "What? You know him _how_?"

"We traveled in similar circles. His name's Sergio, he's an enforcer for the Pierno crime family. They're strong allies of the family I used to work for. And apparently Brice knows him too. If he knows him, then it's safe to assume he's in league with the family."

"What the fuck would the mafia want with a two-bit drug dealer?"

"A two-bit drug dealer with excellent product."

"Hey! You just fucking watch it, alright! I'm in a bad fucking mood!"

"I'm just saying. Maybe the Piernos are trying to get into the meth trade. They're into a lot of shit, but their biggest operation is drug trafficking; mostly cocaine and heroin. It wouldn't surprise me if they were going for stronger diversification. But how the hell they know about Brice when he's a whole state away is anyone's guess. His meth can't be _that_ good."

"You ever consider that just _maybe_ this mafia goon came out here for _you_?"

"Of course I considered it, but it still doesn't explain how he knows Brice." She shook her head. "If Sergio didn't know I was here before, he sure as hell knows now. He saw me, looked right at me. _Recognized _me."

"Looks like you got yourself a little problem then, sunshine."

"If the Piernos are going into business with Brice, then so do you. I don't think you realize how dangerous the mafia really is."

Trevor gave her a weird look, then threw his head back and roared laughter, banging his fist against the steering wheel.

She frowned. "I don't see what's so funny."

"Oh," he said, still laughing, "only the fact that compared to me the mafia is as dangerous as a basket of kittens. You know, that's what I don't get about you, sunshine. I mean, you went into the program, relocated way the fuck out here to protect yourself from them, and here you are with me, and you _know_ what I am, you _know_ what I'm capable of, but you act like you ain't afraid when you _should_ be. So, explain it to me, 'cause I just don't fucking get it: why're you so afraid of them but not of me?"

"Because there's one of you and an army of them," Sonia said. "Because in some ways they're far worse and more dangerous than you, whether you think so or not. Someone pisses you off, you go after them yourself. Someone pisses them off, they send other people for them, people you don't expect. It could be anyone; a person you work with, a friend, the teenager who bags your groceries at the supermarket, a cop. They're _subtle_. And they understand that money rules the world. They can buy powerful people, and make them do what they want. Why do you think the mafia has lasted as long as it has, Trevor? Because they're _dangerous_, in every sense of the word."

"So, you're not afraid of me because I'm _one man_ and _you'll see me coming_?" he asked, his voice holding a tone of disbelief.

"Yeah, that," she answered as she looked at him, a teasing smile tugging at her mouth. "And I think I could take you on without a problem."

Trevor chortled again in genuine amusement. "Oh, please. You can't even take a _kiss, _you wouldn't last two seconds with me in a fight."

* * *

"You know how we thought Parker's place over in Cape Catfish would make a good ambush spot?" Brice asked Clyde over his cellphone. He still held his bowie knife to Sergio's neck, his hand quivering. He felt ill. The Sentinel's interior was starting to spin around him, he was sweating profusely, and the wound in his side was killing him, the pain pulsing around the bullet still lodged inside him. The right side of his shirt was soaked in his own blood and it stained Sergio's suit jacket, where Brice held it to his wound to try and staunch the bleeding. He knew he was going to pass out, and soon.

Clyde laughed. "Is this goin' where I think it's goin'?

"Yeah..." Brice exhaled, leaning his forehead against the back of the driver's headrest, closing his eyes. "I'm in a black Sentinel with one of Paul's guys. We got Philips tailin' us in a red truck. You got all your guys there?"

"Yeah, we're here. You okay, Murph? You sound...in pain."

"I'm fine. Just...have your guys ready." His head spun violently and he could not stifle a groan. "We're about...fifteen minutes out."

"Yeah, alright. We'll be ready."

Brice ended the call and dropped his cellphone on the back seat. He opened his eyes and tried to focus on Sergio, but his vision was getting hazy. "It's...set up. Drive to...to Cape Catfish. Keep right, past the lighthouse. Their place is...it's at the end of the road."

"Your hand's shaking," Sergio noted. "And you don't sound so good. You need to be looked at."

"Just...just drive!" Brice barked, poking at him with the knife.

"All you're trying to do..."

The man's voice began to fade out as Brice's vision started to dim and his fingers with which he gripped the knife grew lax.

"…mean shit if you die..."

Brice gritted his teeth as he clung desperately to consciousness, swaying in his seat. "I ain't_..._dyin'. I ain't..."

It was of no use. He fell against the back seat, the bowie knife dropping from his hand, as darkness swallowed him up.

Sergio glanced up at the rear view, looking at Brice, then checking the position of the red truck, which was far back, but still keeping up. He reached into the pocket of his slacks and pulled out his cellphone, calling Paul.

He picked up on the second ring. "Anything to report, Sergio?"

"Yeah, actually. A lot."

"Well?"

Sergio swallowed. "Murphy got shot."

There was a pause, and then, "What!? How?"

"I followed him to some bar in Paleto Bay. Philips was there. He shot him."

"Is the fool dead?" Paul snapped in anger.

Sergio cringed. "No, still hanging on. I got him in my back seat right now, unconscious. Got shot in the side."

"How the fuck did this happen?"

"Bad luck, I guess. Murphy said he was going out for a drink and Philips was just there. I been following him all day and he didn't once get close to any of those locations Philips is known to be seen at, so I guess we can assume Murphy was telling the truth."

"Fuck! I want you to-"

"Listen, boss," Sergio cut in. He wouldn't normally be so rude as to interrupt his boss, especially when he was issuing orders, but this is was too important; he knew Paul would pardon the faux pas. "There's something else. Murphy wasn't going out to drink alone. He was meeting a woman there. It was _her_, boss. Marinelli."

"You're sure?"

"Saw her with my own eyes. She was with Philips. Could've been a trap they set up for Brice."

"Perhaps. So, _this _is where they hid the rat? I assume you don't have her."

"I can get her," Sergio guaranteed. "She and Philips are tailing me as we speak. Brice set up an ambush over the phone with Clyde and his gang before he blacked out. They can handle Philips and I'll handle Marinelli."

"Yes, okay. I want her _alive_, Sergio. It's the Lupo family's prerogative to take their revenge on her, what's left of them. They have been our allies for a long time. We must honor their right."

"I understand."

"I'm going to call Clyde and have him arrange transportation for Murphy. You make sure he's out of there before shit hits the fan."

"You got it, boss."

* * *

"It's weird," Sonia thought aloud, eying the Sentinel speeding through the freeway, yards ahead of them.

"What?" Trevor asked. "You mean you thinking you can actually take me in a fight? Yeah, I'd say that qualifies as weird."

"I was referring to the fact that we're chasing after a Sentinel that should've outdistanced this slow fucking truck a long time ago."

"Don't bad mouth my Betty!"

"It's like he's _intentionally _keeping pace with us..."

"_Good_, I hope he is. This may come as a shock to you, but out of the countless corpses I've left in my wake, none of them were mobbed up. This'll be my first."

"Unless _I _get to him first."

His mouth drooped into an exaggerated pout. "Whatever happened to _sharing_? I mean, I'm sure this prick probably called the Don or whatever by now and told him all about how you've been hiding out in southern San Andreas all this time. You're gonna have _plenty_ of mafia goons to kill, so stop being greedy and let me break my cherry."

"Fine," Sonia conceded, putting her hands up. "But if he sets his sights on me first, he's mine."

Trevor grumbled something, but Sonia stopped listening.

Up ahead, the black Sentinel got off the Senora Freeway, taking a left turn onto a road that snaked between some farmland and the foot of the rugged San Chianski mountain range. The black coupe followed it a good pace, then took a right turn under a train bridge. There was a faded, wooden sign just off to the left of the road, welcoming motorists to Cape Catfish.

It was a beautiful place even at night.

San Chianski's ridges tumbled down to the right of the winding road, its slopes dotted with trees and bushes. On the left the land gave way to the black satin expanse of ocean, breaking off into steep, rocky cliffs. A red and white-striped lighthouse towered on its lonely little island not far from the shoreline, its light beacon slowly revolving around the top, piercing through the night. Near the edge of a cliff was the lighthouse keeper's residence, a charming, two-story, ranch-styled house stolen right out of a photo calendar.

"Alrighty," Trevor spoke. "So maybe it _is_ weird."

"What?"

"This road here, it's a dead end. He can't be _that_ stupid."

"Well, he's not from here," Sonia pointed out. "Maybe he doesn't know it's a dead end."

"And yet he seems to _know_ where he's going; ain't speeding up or slowing down, didn't hesitate at any road crossings."

Sonia got a strange feeling in her gut, a _bad_ feeling; one she'd had before outside of a night club on the Strip, right before she was surrounded by FIB agents. "Trevor...it's a trap."

"Yeah, way ahead of you there, sunshine. Probably an ambush." He grinned. "God, I can't wait! I hope they brought a fucking army!"

Sonia gaped at him. "You do realize you're armed with only a _pistol, _and they're probably carrying heavier firearms, right?"

"Am I?" He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. "Check the back there."

Sonia looked back into the truck bed, and noted the scoped rifle, the carbine rifle and shotgun laying there. Then she glanced at him with raised brows. "Were you _expecting_ it to come to this?"

Trevor shrugged. "I like to be prepared. Don't wanna end up like ol' Bricey boy."

"Yeah...looked like you got him in the stomach. Acids are probably burning their way through his guts right now." Sonia hissed through her teeth, making a face. "Painful way to go."

"Not nearly painful enough. Motherfucker better not be dead yet, not before I've killed him properly."

"What's properly, or should I even ask?"

"_Slow_." He dragged the word out. "They're gonna be able to hear him scream in fucking _China_."

* * *

The road ended at a strip of shoreline, where an old house, two grounded fishing boats, and a boat shed were all clumped together. There was also a brief, rickety pier stretching out from the shoreline, where a speed boat was docked, a man sitting in it.

Sergio saw Clyde standing at the head of the pier, waiting, as he rolled his Sentinel to a stop near the old boat. He checked the rear view mirror one last time, but did not see the red truck back there. He wasn't sure why. Up until this point, it had been in his view.

Sergio cut the engine off and got out of his car as the biker approached.

"Got a boat ready to ship off Murphy. Is he..." Clyde trailed off as he looked through the back passenger window at Brice, who was sprawled out on the back seats, still unconscious.

"Ain't dead yet," Sergio said as he opened one of the back doors, "but he ain't doing well, either."

The two men worked together to haul Brice from the Sentinel, then carried him off to the boat waiting at the pier, Sergio carrying the man's feet while Clyde had him under the arms.

The man behind the boat's controls was another biker, and he helped the two men ease Brice onto the vessel. Then he knelt down and pulled away the suit jacket and the man's blood-soaked shirt to examine the gunshot wound.

After a moment he looked up at Clyde and Sergio. "Doubt the bullet hit anything major or he'd be dead by now. Lost a lot of blood, though. I got a first aid kit, I can patch him up."

"Wait till you're a safe distance away and out of sight," Clyde told him, "then do it. Paul's gonna be meetin' you at a beach a few miles east of here. He'll have flares lit so you can find him. Just keep followin' the shoreline."

The man nodded as he took his seat behind the boat's controls and started the engine, then he was speeding off into the night.

"Philips is going to show up with a woman," Sergio told Clyde.

The biker nodded. "Yeah, Paul told me. We ain't allowed to kill her. My crew's aware of it."

"Good. Are they ready?"

"And rarin'." Clyde grinned and slapped Sergio on the back. "Let's put this motherfucker down. And when he's dead, we'll take his head. A gift for Brice, since it ain't workin' out the way he wanted. I hear he likes heads as trophies."

* * *

The truck slowed to a stop near the side of the road. Up ahead, it ended at the shore, where there was a house, a ramshackle boat shed, two grounded boats in disrepair, and the black Sentinel. A man stood out there near the pier, dressed from head to foot in black leather.

Sonia looked at Trevor. "Why're we stopping?"

"Gonna leg it from here," he said as he reached back into the truck bed for the sniper rifle. "You any good with one of these?"

Sonia smiled as she took the firearm from his hands. "I consider myself a decent shot. I actually prefer sniping, as it happens."

"Big fuckin' surprise there," Trevor scoffed. "Is it the act of sniping you prefer, or just the _distance_ it puts between you and anyone else?"

She made a sour face at him. "Really? You're gonna start this shit _now_?"

His mouth stretched into a toothy grin. "Of course. What better time to wind you up?" Then he got serious. "Alright, listen. I probably ain't even gonna need you, but just in case, you're gonna hang back here and cover me."

That took her by surprise. "Wait a minute. So, if it comes to it, _you're _trusting _me_ with your life?"

His face got a suspicious expression. "Are you saying I shouldn't?"

"I didn't think you did in the first place. I'm just surprised."

Trevor shrugged. "Don't make me regret it. Or I'm gonna make _you_ regret it in the most gruesome way I can think up, and I'm blessed with a colorfully twisted imagination." He reached across her knees and banged a fist against the glove compartment door. It popped open to reveal the mess crammed inside; crumpled receipts and unpaid parking tickets, an almost empty box of condoms, an old half-eaten candy bar and some other random crap. He dug most of it out and reached further inside for what he was looking for. He came out holding a pair of wireless ear pieces that reminded Sonia of the ones her Marshal protection detail had used to communicate with each other when they had taken her back and forth to court.

He gestured one to her. "So we can communicate. Been a while since Ron and I used 'em, but they should still work."

Sonia took it from him and looked it over. She found the little button that turned it on, then fitted the device to her ear as the man opened his door and stepped out.

He leaned in the driver's side window. "Get yourself to a good vantage point pronto. I'm heading down there."

As Trevor started the rest of the way down the zigzagging road, Sonia got out of the truck and surveyed the area for a sniping roost. She had the ridges to her right, which looked down upon the scene, and to her left was wide, mostly open land, where a pair of old houses sat. The latter was out. The ridges might have been ideal, but she could tell from where she stood that the boat shed was going to be blocked from her sight line. In the end she chose a spot close to the left side of the road, where the land formed a small, rocky outcropping between a handful of towering trees and dropped off to the scene below. The trees would give her some cover and she would have a clear view of everything.

As she crouched down at the edge of the outcropping and between a pair of trees, Sonia raised the rifle and peered down its scope. Thankfully, the scene below was lit up from the house's porch lights, the spotlights that surrounded the old grounded boat and the ones above the boat shed, so she had no problem seeing.

She got Trevor in her crosshairs, where he was now half way down the road.

Her mind took an abrupt and sinister turn, noting how easy it would be to take him out. _Just one shot to the back of the head, and maybe things'll start to make sense again._ Maybe whatever was happening to her, what she was feeling, what he'd done to her, maybe it would stop or fix itself once he was gone.

She took in a breath, held it, touched the trigger with her forefinger. _A little more pressure on the trigger, Sonia. That's all you need._

But then another thought came, an unbidden one, in her voice but somehow different._ Really? You're just gonna shoot him in the head when he trusts you? You're gonna betray him like you betrayed Lupo?_

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, hesitating. _I don't have a choice. He's too dangerous; he's trying to fuck me up. He's already done something to me. I don't like the way I feel now; I'm not myself. I'm not myself! _

"_You in position yet?_" came Trevor's voice over the ear piece.

Her heart lurched and her eyes snapped open. "Uh, y-yeah." She peered down the scope again, found him. "Got you in my sights."

"_Good. So listen, when this is done, we're gonna sit down and have that talk._"

She groaned. "Why can't you just _let it go_?"

"_Why? Because I deserve to fucking know what it meant, that's why. I wanna know if this is going somewhere."_

"No, nothing is going anywhere." _Except for me. That's what I need to do; just leave, get as far away as I can._

"_Yeah? It didn't seem like that when you had your tongue down my throat earlier. How did my tonsils taste, by the way?_"

"It's an exceedingly bad idea to piss off the stone-hearted killer who's got the back of your balding head in her crosshairs," Sonia warned.

"_Well, before you shoot, Sonia, I think you should know I'm in love with you. Seriously, hopelessly, fucking in love with you." _His voice was gruffer than usual, with an angry, accusatory note in his tone, as if he were blaming her for how he supposedly felt.

The fact that that was the first time he'd ever called her by her name made her wonder if he really was serious.

Sonia shook her head. _Fuck this crap. It's not the time for it._

"_But if you're not gonna shoot,_" Trevor continued, "_then I think you can do me the fucking courtesy of explaining what in the hell happened earlier. Was it real or were you just trying to prove something?"_

Sonia ignored him, panning the rifle around and taking in the whole area. She spotted the black Sentinel, parked in the midst of the little area below. No one was inside it.

"_Are you gonna fucking answer me? Or am I gonna have to come back up there?"_

Sonia moved the crosshairs over the man standing near the short pier. He was a sturdy guy, shaved head, long red beard. On the breast of his black leather jacket was a flame-shaped patch. "We'll talk about it later, Trevor. _Focus_. I got Sergio's car, but no Sergio or Brice. I am clocking a biker at your twelve, though, standing over by that pier."

"_Yeah, I see him. That would be Clyde, president of the Devil's Crotch Fruit, which means we can expect the rest of his merry little band of outlaws. If they ain't already out here, they will be. Keep an eye on our six._"

"Got it. Looks like Brice made himself quite a few friends."

"_And all the wrong ones."_

Sonia looked back, checking the road for any approaching vehicles, then surveyed the ridges and the open land behind her, but she couldn't see anything in the darkness. The only light came from the street lamps, and they only lit up the road.

She peered down the scope again. Trevor swaggered onto the scene below, carbine rifle poised. Then she caught movement on the left edge of the scope and panned that way. Three guys were moving in on the side of the house, all armed, all dressed in black leather. "You got three bikers moving in on your nine. West side of the house." She panned right, because she had a gut feeling. And there they were, three armed men coming down the ridge near the boat shed. "Three more east of your position, coming down by that boat shed." She drew back from the rifle just as she heard a twig snap behind her. She twisted around, her heart stuttered.

Sergio stood there, aiming his micro SMG at her, his face dark with hatred. "Drop the rifle and stand up, you treacherous bitch."

_Fuck. Where did he come from? _Having little choice in the matter, Sonia laid the rifle down and got to her feet as an irritated voice growled in her ear, "_Deal with it, Sonia." _She rolled her eyes. _As if I need to be told_.

Then, over Sergio's shoulder, she spotted movement under the street lamps, armed and leather-clad figures skulking down the road in a spread out formation. She had no idea where they'd come from, either, unless they had been lying in wait by one of those old houses near the cliff. "Four on your six, coming down the road."

Sergio frowned, shaking his micro SMG at her. "Turn around! Up against that tree and hands where I can see them. Do it!"

Sonia obeyed, turning to the tree with her hands raised out at her sides.

Sergio stepped in behind her. "Hands above your head. Touch the tree and keep them there. You fucking _twitch,_ I'll break your legs."

She reached up and placed her hands on the bark, one on top of the other. Sergio frisked her, running his free hand over her dress while he kept his SMG pressed into the small of her back. When he bent down a little to feel along the insides of her thighs for a hidden holster, Sonia seized her chance and rammed her elbow back into his face, knowing full well the SMG could off and perforate her with lead.

It didn't.

She spun around as Sergio staggered backward. She didn't give him a chance to recover, launching herself at him. Her hands grabbed onto the firearm, pushing it up and away from her, trying to tear it from his grasp.

Sergio held on tight, jerked the weapon to one side, taking her with it.

Her feet tangled. She started to slip to her knees, still clinging onto the micro SMG with one hand. Sergio planted a foot against her chest and shoved her back into the dirt, then moved in on her.

"Alright, you little cun-"

Sonia flung a handful of dirt in his face.

The man cursed and backed off blindly as he tried to rub the grit out of his eyes.

She found a large rock, grabbed it, scrambled to her feet. She stormed on him, spitting a furious curse, drawing her arm back. Then it swung forward, the rock bashing across the man's jaw, a streak of blood flying from his mouth. He stumbled back with a pained shout, still half-blind.

Relentless and merciless, Sonia came after him, gripping the rock with both hands now. She slammed it into his face again, shattering his nose. He cried out. Blood poured down his lips and chin. She drew it back and drove it forward again and again and again, battering the man to the ground, shouting profanities at him.

Sergio lay in the dirt, unmoving.

Sonia knelt astride him anyway, tossing the rock aside. She gripped his bloody head with both hands and twisted it with all the strength she possessed, growling from the effort. His neck snapped.

She stood away from the battered corpse and sucked in a deep breath, holding it in her lungs. As the fury slowly cleared her mind, she finally registered the din of gunfire coming from the shoreline below.

"Shit!"

Sonia searched the ground for the ear piece, found it, scooped it up. As she fitted it in place, she rushed back to her sniping roost. "Trevor?"

"_If you're done screwing around_," he responded with much irritation. "_I could use a little help down here. Got a fuckin' sniper pinning me down._"

"Which direction?" she asked as she grabbed up the rifle.

"_Three o'clock, on those ridges._" There was a noise then, a sound Sonia could hear in her ear as well as in the distance, a loud, echoing bang, followed by the shattering of glass. "_Hurry the fuck up_!"

Sonia stared down the scope, scanning the ridges to the east. It wasn't hard to spot the sniper, even in the dark. The man was huge.

She moved the crosshairs over his head, pulled in a breath, held it to steady her aim, and fired. The man's head jerked back, then the mountain of muscles crumpled and rolled lifelessly down the ridge he had stood upon. "He's taken care of."

"_Why don't you just _f_uck off!_"

Sonia's brows rose, but she assumed that wasn't directed at her as she scanned the scene below. She spotted Trevor crouched down behind the black Sentinel, taking heavy fire from three different directions. She then noticed four bodies laying near the road. Those bikers she'd seen. Trevor had gotten them before they could have him completely surrounded.

Surveying the boat shed, she spotted some bright red propane canisters grouped together along its side wall near a corner of the structure, close enough to the two bikers keeping cover on the back wall. Another man stood behind a nearby tree. If the blast was big enough, they would all get caught up in it.

"Keep your head down, Trev. I'm predicting an explosion over by that boat shed."

She took a breath, aimed at the canisters, and waited for the biker closest to the edge of the wall to move out of cover. When he did, she took the shot.

The canisters blew apart with a boom, flaming metal and debris flying through the air. The biker by the wall died instantly, his corpse burning. She couldn't see the other; he'd probably gotten blown back, and with any luck, had suffered some fatal injury. The man who'd been standing behind the tree was screaming and rolling around on the ground, every inch of him engulfed in flames.

"_Woo!_ _That's my girl!_"

"Sniper!" a biker yelled. "North, up by those trees!"

Sonia hastened for cover, scrambling behind the trunk of one of those trees. Seconds later, bullets were thumping into it, tearing the bark off in chunks and splinters. Some projectiles whizzed past, burrowing into the ground around her. She heard the unmistakeable sound of Trevor's carbine going off in her ear, then there was a high-pitched scream as someone died.

"_Still alive, sunshine?_"

"It's gonna take more than these bearded, cocksucking bastards to take me down!"

"_God, you're sexy when you're fired up_."

"Not now!" Sonia growled.

She remained in cover until the bullets coming her way ebbed, then she lowered herself to a prone position behind the tree, setting the rifle just alongside the trunk. It was much more difficult for her to shoot from this position, but now that the enemy knew where she was she had no other choice. She laid her cheek close to the rifle's stock and stared down the scope. She found a biker seeking protection behind the old fishing boat. By the time she'd gotten her aim settled on him, she heard the carbine again and the man jerked, blood ejecting from his head.

"Hey, you fucking thief," Sonia griped. "That was my kill."

"_Ain't my fault you're fuckin' slow. Only two of 'em left. That ginger-bearded fucker is mine. Think you can take down the other before he dies of old age?_"

"Think you can go fuck yourself?" Sonia fired back.

His laughter filled her ear, and tingled up her spine. "Why would I fuck myself when you can do it for me?"

"Ugh! Hate you."

Rising to a crouch again, Sonia scanned around for the biker. She found someone keeping protection behind the house. At first sight, she thought it was a child, but children didn't tend to grow beards or wield SMGs. _A midget biker? That's something you don't see everyday. _She was starting to wonder how he even rode a motorcycle, then shook her head and got back on track, easing the crosshairs over the biker's head. She set the projectile free and the little man shouted and toppled to the ground.

That done, Sonia put her sights back on Trevor. He was still crouched behind the Sentinel, firing off his carbine rifle toward the old grounded boat a few yards from his position. She caught movement, an arm flinging out from around the side of the boat. A small, dark object sailed through the air and landed at the rear of the Sentinel.

Sonia followed it with her rifle, zoomed the scope in on it. Her eyes flew wide, her heart stopped cold in her chest. _Oh, fuck._ "_Grenade_! Get away from the car!"

"_Fuck me_!"

Trevor bolted from his position. Sonia tried to keep him in sight, but he was soon lost in an explosion of fire and smoke as the grenade burst and the Sentinel blew apart, its rear doors blasting outward, flying like flaming meteors through the air. She heard horrible noises coming through the ear piece, the grunts and groans of human pain.

As the car smoldered, Sonia scanned the grounds quickly, her heart now jack-hammering in her chest, her blood thundering through her ears. Where the fuck was he? Terrible What Ifs stormed through her walls and seized her. "Trevor, I'm not seeing you. Where are you?"

There was no answer.

"Trevor?"

Nothing. Silence.

Panic bubbled up in her gut. "Trevor...if this is your idea of a joke...it's not fucking funny! I'm gonna come down there and kick your ass!"

Sonia listened intently, but there was just that dead static. She gritted her teeth. "God damn you! Would you just let me know you're alive, you insensitive fucking asshole!"

But that terrible silence remained, the kind of silence that had dragged on for too long. He was done, the enemy had succeeded, and it was all over.

Except it wasn't. It fucking wasn't, not as long as she still drew breath.

Sonia looked around through her scope again, rage replacing her panic. Rage and something else she couldn't grasp in the moment. The red-bearded biker had his head stuck out from around the side of the prow. She saw him grin and only one thought went through her mind: _You're gonna pay. You, Brice, and whoever the fuck else. I'm gonna murder every last fucking one of you._ She wanted to scream it at him, but some cold phantom hand was wrapped around her throat.

Sonia steadied her aim and squeezed the trigger, the rifle's stock jamming back into her shoulder. She hardly felt it over the potent mix of emotions that shot through her. Sonia watched with satisfaction as the projectile obliterated the grin the biker was wearing. It went through the side of his cheek, tearing through the flesh, shattering his teeth and jaw as it exited the other side. The man howled as he held his ruined face in his hands, ribbons of blood streaming through his fingers. Sonia aimed the rifle low and took out a knee cap. The man crumpled to the ground, screaming in agony. She waited and waited, letting him suffer for what he'd done, reveling every tortured sound that came out of him. When she'd had her fill and the man's screams finally died down, she shot him in the head.

As the area descended into that awful silence again, Sonia sat back on her legs, staring down at the smoldering Sentinel. She felt wet warmth against her cheeks and touched it. She stared at her fingers, at the clear moisture on them, astonished. Was she...crying? But she hadn't cried in years.

Why did she feel this way? This feeling, this _grief_, she had only felt it once before, when she was a kid and a policeman showed up on the doorstep to tell her her parents had been murdered.

Now he was dead too. But what she was feeling didn't make sense. She had loved her parents, they'd been her entire world, but she didn't love him. Of course not. She _couldn't_, because he'd been right, hadn't he? All she knew was her walls and they had turned her heart to stone; her ability to love had died a long time ago. That grief was wrong. It was all wrong; it wasn't supposed to be there.

Brushing away the tears, Sonia got to her feet and looked one last time through the scope on the rifle. Over near where the road met the scene of death and destruction, she caught sight of a thick bush moving. Through the ear piece, she heard a long groan, followed by a stressed, "_Damn_." Then she saw him, rising like a present-day Lazarus.

Overwhelmed by a barrage of relief and terror, Sonia threw down the rifle and ran. Not to him, but away from him. She simply couldn't comprehend these things she felt, and she didn't want to feel them. They were dangerous and _wrong; _they were a threat to her sense of self, a threat to everything she believed. She had to get away from them, away from their source before they changed and ruined her.

She trod on a rock. Her ankle twisted and she fell, catching herself on her hands and a knee. She dragged herself up, kicked off her heels and limped onward.

Her feet took her to an old Albany Emperor parked in the dirt driveway of one of the two nearby houses. It was locked. She found a rock and smashed it through the driver's side window, then reached in to unlock the door. Once she was seated behind the wheel, she reached under the steering column to pull the panel off and hot wire the car. As the engine roared to life, Sonia jerked the gear shift into reverse and smashed her aching foot down on the gas pedal. The vehicle swerved back from the driveway.

"_Hey, what the fuck're you doing?_" Trevor spoke in her ear.

Her heart lurched against her chest cavity. _Goddammit!_

In her desperate flight, she'd forgotten about the ear piece. Sonia moved the gear shift into drive and floored it. The old sedan took off up the road with surprising speed.

"I gotta go." She should've just tossed the ear piece out the window, but some part of her needed to explain what she was doing. Some part of her knew he deserved an explanation, even if he could never understand it. "I need to get away from you. I-"

"_You need to...?_" he cut in. His voice sounded confused. Then it broke over some emotion, "_What the fuck are you saying?_"

"I can't...I have to leave; I can't be around you anymore. It's too confusing, nothing makes _sense_. You're doing shit to me and I don't like it. I don't _want_ it! I didn't ask for this!"

There was a pause, then the fury poured out of him, "_You...I...no! No! Fuck! You can't fucking do this to me! I trusted you! I love you! I fucking _love_ you and you're just gonna run out on me!?_"

"Don't-"

"_God, I'm a fucking idiot...I shoulda seen this coming! You're just like all the fucking rest! How did I not fucking see it!?_"

She heard something else in his tone now, the pain under the anger. "I'm sorry. _I'm sorry_. I just-"

"_Fuck you. Fuck your sorry._" His voice was a low, savage growl that carried a note of finality. "_Go ahead and run, Sonia, see how far it gets you. I will find you if it's the last fucking thing I do. I will come for you in your sleep._"

Sonia tore off the ear piece and threw it out the window. Her hands were shaking so bad she could barely keep a grip on the steering wheel and she could hardly see through the tears in her eyes. She felt cold all over, despite the stuffy heat inside the car, and something building up inside her, ballooning in her chest, filling her throat.

She screamed. She screamed at him for ever coming into her life. She screamed at her confusion, at her anger and fear, at her walls and locked-up heart, at the old pain that would not heal. She screamed because she hated herself more than she hated anyone, even the monster who'd taken her innocence.

She screamed and beat her fists against the steering wheel. "Coward! Fucking coward! You're just a fucking coward!"

Sonia was in Sandy Shores before she knew it, barreling onto Marina Drive. When she pulled into the driveway of her house, she jumped out of the car and rushed up the stairs, hardly noticing the dark blue Asterope she had parked behind. When she opened the door and saw who sat in the living room with Ruth Weatherby, her breath died in her throat.

U.S. Marshal Brian Schmidt stood from the couch. He was unshaven and grim-faced, his eyes were dull and bloodshot. This was not the warm, good-humored man who had kept her alive for four months during Lupo's trial.

"Brian?" Her voice was hoarse from her earlier screaming fit. "What're you doing here?"

He met her gaze, his own filled with black despair. "My son is dead."

Before Sonia could say anything, a thunderous boom erupted from outside. Seconds later, there was another, more deafening than the first. It sounded closer, and its power shook the house and rattled the windows.

Sonia wheeled around, looked through the open front door. A thick pillar of smoke rose from the west side of town, almost three blocks over. She knew what it was.

The lab.


	17. Chapter 16: Devastation

**Chapter Sixteen: Devastation**

* * *

_This changes nothing._

It was the tenth time Sonia had to assure herself of that as she gazed at the still inflamed remains of Liquor Ace and its neighboring gas station. Both buildings were total losses, their structures reduced to huge piles of blackened rubble. Smoke, black and thick, billowed upward from the glowing ruins and filled the parched night air with a noxious stench; the burning of varied building materials and the chemicals that had been housed in the meth lab.

It was potent enough to make Sonia feel weird, almost lightheaded, but it could never match the force of the anger boiling in her blood or the intensity of her burning desire for revenge. They were just more emotions she knew she shouldn't be feeling. It wasn't like it was her place of business that had gotten destroyed, and yet somehow it felt personal, for a reason she couldn't explain or didn't want to acknowledge.

Obviously, this was Brice's doing and he'd must've had help, probably from the Devil's Sons or Paul Pierno. Or perhaps they were all in on it together. Whatever the case, Brice had gone too far this time. When Trevor found out, when he saw what the man had done...

Sonia shook her head. _It's his own fault. If he hadn't insisted on following me to the Mojito Inn, he would've been here to stop it_. _It's his own fault and it's not my concern. I have to get the fuck outta here._

She turned away from the scene of devastation and headed to the Albany Emperor she'd stolen earlier, where Brian Schmidt and Ruth Weatherby were waiting.

As soon as she got in behind the steering wheel, she reached out to switch the AC on, turning the knob to the highest notch. A blast of hot air came through the vents, making her cringe slightly at the discomfort of it warming her already heated skin.

Schmidt glanced at her and asked, "What's going on?"

Sonia shook her head and sighed as she pulled the gearstick down to the D position and pressed her foot down on the accelerator. "Too much, Brian. I'm sure you know the Piernos found out I'm here. It's time for me to disappear again." She didn't doubt that Sergio had contacted Paul about spotting her at the inn. They would hunt her down and deliver her to what remained of the Lupo crime family. Or if they couldn't capture her, a price would be put on her head, and they often put high sums of money on the heads of those who break the code of _omertà_. Considering she had provided the feds with enough information to dismantle an entire mafia family, that price could very well be in the six figure range. The entire underworld would be out for her blood. It was just another reason why she should leave.

Sonia drove out of town, heading east on East Joshua Road toward the Senora Freeway. She'd borrowed Schmidt's phone not long ago to search for a decent motel and found one located near Paleto Bay. The plan was to drop off Ruth there, get a room for her until Schmidt could find her a permanent place to stay, then she intended to book the next flight to Hawaii.

_Where I wanted to go in the first place, where Schmidt should have relocated me. I can start over again there and pretend none of this ever happened. Life'll be good there; it'll make fucking sense_.

Schmidt's voice broke into her thoughts, "Actually, I didn't know. How did they find out?"

Sonia looked at him, brows arched high in surprise. "You _didn't _know? I thought that's why you came out here."

"No...I came out here for my son," Brian admitted.

She merely eyed him a moment, then focused on the road, frowning, gripping the steering wheel tighter. She knew what he was implying. "So, what're you gonna try to do then? Arrest me...or just kill me?"

"Why would I do either?" He sounded truly confused and stared at her weirdly, as if she had just declared herself Queen of Neptune.

"Because you're out here for your son, you just said tha-"

"You had nothing to do with my son's death."

She shook her head, refusing to believe that. "Didn't I? None of this would be happening right now if I hadn't flipped on Lupo."

Brian sighed. "I'm not going to lie to you. I did blame you at first, but then I realized how easy that was. And just because it's easy doesn't make it right. You weren't there, Sonia. You didn't hold the gun that put my boy in an early grave, you didn't send those men to my house. It's not your fault. One of the Marshals on your protection detail-"

"Yeah, I talked to Marshal Cooper about that over the phone a while back," Sonia interrupted. "He said someone on my protection detail must've talked to Lupo, told him about you being the only person with knowledge of my location, probably in exchange for money or something. And Lupo had Joe Pierno send some men to your house to get that information out of you. About right?"

Brian nodded. "Yes. That fucking _traitor_ in the agency and Joe Pierno are the ones responsible for my son's death; he's the boss of the family, he gives the orders. The traitor is being taken care of. The Marshals who made up your protection detail are being investigated and they'll find out who leaked that information. They always do."

"What do you think?" she asked. "Who do you think talked?"

"Hard to say," he answered with a shrug. "I've worked with all of them for over five years, and they've always come across as good men. I've trusted them with my life. I still can't believe one of them betrayed me like this."

"I can," Sonia said, her voice breaking over the lump in her throat. There was a bad feeling in her stomach as well, like a heavy weight was pushing down on it. "The ones you trust are always the ones who hurt you the worst."

He must have heard something in her voice, for he gave her a gentle look and said again, "_It's not your fault. _You had your reason for flipping on Lupo, and maybe it was selfish or just out of fear of prison, but you put a lot of bad people away. The next time you want to blame yourself, think about how many lives you saved by doing what you did. Think about how many _children_ get to grow up because of what you did."

"But yours _doesn't_ get to grow up, Brian." Her voice broke again, this time over a combination of anger and despair. She reached out and fiddled with the AC knob, wondering why the hell the air wasn't cold yet. But no matter which way she turned it, how she messed with it, the air coming through the vents stayed hot. It was fucked, as much as she was.

Furious, she ripped the knob off the front console and threw it with such force it wedged between the windshield's glass and the uppermost part of the dashboard.

Brian put a hand on her arm. "Sonia-"

"What kind of a fucking monster shoots an innocent, _defenseless_ little kid!?"

"The cowardly kind, the _worst_ kind. Joe Pierno is going to pay for what he did, you can be sure of that. He didn't just kill my son, you know? That was bad enough, but...after David's funeral, my wife packed up and left for her mother's, took our daughter with her. She's filing for a divorce and seeking full custody of our little girl. I may never see either one of them again."

Sonia took his hand, squeezing, holding on tight. "Jesus God, Brian...I'm so sorry."

He squeezed back as he went on, "He tore apart my family and now I'm gonna tear apart _his_. I've been keeping tabs on his eldest son Paul. I found out he was flying out here on a business trip, so of course I followed him. He brought people with him. That's actually why I came to see you." He looked at her, his expression as somber as a funeral. "I can't do this alone. I need your help."

"Brian..." Sonia started, but paused when a fiery glow entered her peripheral vision. She looked left out the driver's side window. Out across the farmlands of Grapeseed, that orange glow flickered and a thick pillar of smoke rose up into the dark firmament. Something big was burning, but she couldn't see what.

It couldn't be coincidence. Whatever it was, she knew in her gut that it was connected to Trevor.

_It's not your concern. Think about Hawaii. The beaches. A life that makes sense._

Sonia kept driving, tearing her eyes away from the smoke to focus on the road ahead as she neared the freeway.

"What is it, Sonia?" Brian asked. "We drove away from one explosion, and now something's burning over near those fields. What's going on?"

She chewed her bottom lip, wondering if she could trust him. He was a good, law-upholding man, but his grief and anger had brought him out here to avenge his son. His actions and intentions were justified in his mind, even if they were not justifiable by the law, but could he overlook the fact that she had been committing crimes alongside one of the county's most dangerous criminals, if not _the_ most dangerous?

"Can I trust you?" she asked. "I mean, if I tell you what's going on, it stays just between us, right? I want a guarantee that me and...a, uh, a friend of mine will be immune from prosecution."

Brian frowned at her. "I'm not a Marshal anymore, Sonia. When my son died, I handed in my resignation."

"Oh." She gave him a brief, uncertain look. "Still, do I have a guarantee?"

He nodded. "As long as I have a guarantee that what I'm doing out here stays between us, too."

"You have that guarantee, Brian."

"Then so do you. Now, what the hell is going on?"

So, Sonia told him everything.

* * *

The Bayview Lodge was a quaint little place on the outskirts of Paleto Bay, surrounded by the tall evergreens of the Paleto Forest. It consisted of ten motel cabins, a general store, and a combination diner and front office. All the buildings were constructed of redwood planks and gave off a cabin in the woods vibe. Its most eye-capturing feature was the huge Logger Man statue towering in the parking lot and near the side of the road, hefting a cask of Logger Beer over his left shoulder and an ax over his right.

Sonia pulled the Emperor into the lot as Brian looked around in confusion.

"Why're we here?" he asked.

"I wanted to get Ruth to a safe place. If Paul doesn't already know where I live, he'll find out soon, assuming Brice survived that gunshot wound. The man's been to my house once."

Brian glanced back at the old woman, where she was fast asleep in the back seat, lightly snoring. "So, you're just gonna dump her here?"

"Well, I was hoping you could pull some of your Marshal strings and find her a permanent place to live, maybe in a retirement home or something, but since you're not a Marshal anymore...I don't know. For now, I'm just gonna get her a room to stay in. Wait here."

As she got out of the car and entered the front office, she was greeted by a burly, bearded guy posted behind the large redwood reception desk. He looked a smaller, living version of the Logger Man outside, dressed in jean overalls and a red-plaid shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

Sonia booked a room with a single queen-sized bed and paid the man the required cash for seven nights. Cash was safest; it didn't leave a trail to follow.

Key in hand, Sonia headed back to the car and drove over to Room 10, the closest one to the road, and parked outside of it. Brian carried Ruth's luggage to the door while Sonia woke the old woman and helped her from the car. She tossed the key to the man so he could unlock the door.

They were greeted with cool, refrigerated air and the muted, sterile scent of cleaning product mingled with the musty odor of stale cigarettes as they entered the room. Brian sat the luggage on the dresser and Sonia walked Ruth to the bed to sit.

As the old woman grabbed the remote from the bedside table and clicked the TV on, proceeding to channel surf, Brian, who now stood at the door with a grim look on his face, addressed Sonia, "Can we talk outside?"

She nodded and they stepped out together onto the little porch, where a table and two white, plastic chairs were set up for outdoor comfort, Sonia shutting the door behind them. They took a seat in the chairs and she lit herself a much needed cigarette.

It was a few minutes before Brian spoke.

"There's something you haven't cleared up."

Sonia exhaled a thin finger of smoke, then asked, "What's that?"

"You mentioned when you were explaining everything that this Trevor guy probably wants you dead now, but you never said why. What did you do to him?"

Sonia scowled at him. "What do you mean, 'what did I do to him_'_? How come it's not 'what did _he_ do to _me_'?"

"Well, for one thing, if he did something to you, it would be _you_ wanting _him_ dead and not the other way around. And for another, you don't exactly have a good track record when it comes to the people you've worked for."

"I like you, Brian, and I'm truly fucking sorry about what happened to your kid, but _fuck you_," she bristled. "You don't know the absolute _shit_ that asshole's put me through!"

"Then you _do_ want him dead?"

"Honestly? No." She made a bitter, sulking face. "But I wish I could say I did."

"So, what did he do to you, then?"

"You mean besides annoy me, judge me, insult me, threaten me, and constantly make inappropriate sexual passes at me? Oh, _not much_," Sonia said with dry tones as she flicked the ashes from the end of her cigarette. "Mostly it was just...the way he...he got in my head. He just confuses me. _God_, he fucking confuses me and he makes me confused about myself. He was starting to change me, and that was just _it_ for me, the last straw, you know?"

"Change you how?"

Sonia thought about how to explain it as she puffed on her cigarette. Then she blew the smoke out and asked, "Have you ever reacted to something in a way that you normally wouldn't, a way that's completely _not you_?"

"I'm a man of the law out here to commit murder, so yes," replied Brian, his tone dry.

"Well, that's how he was changing me. I mean, once, he went down to LS for a few days and I found that I actually missed having him around, but I don't do that, I don't miss people like that. Then earlier we got into this nasty argument and the prick had the fucking nerve to _kiss_ me. Can you believe that?" She huffed and shook her head. "He _always_ does shit like that, and gives no fucking warning that he's going to do it. And this time...I don't know, it just _got_ to me. I kissed him back in a way I've never kissed anyone and it was the best and worst feeling in the world. Something just woke up in me and wanted to do it, and I couldn't control it. That's _never _happened to me before..."

Brian opened his mouth to say something, but she wasn't quite done yet, so he sat in silence and let her finish. It seemed to be something she needed to do.

"Then later, when we were having it out with those bikers, there was this moment when I was certain he'd been killed, and...it was just the most awful feeling, like losing my parents all over again, but different somehow." Sonia paused, swallowed, shook her head. "I never asked for any of this; I never wanted it."

Brian looked at her for some moments, then burst into laughter.

Peeved by his reaction, Sonia narrowed her eyes and said with bitter sarcasm, "Well, I'm glad you find my suffering so amusing."

"So, what you're telling me is you're angry at him because you have feelings for him?" He shook his head and laughed again. "Do you realize how idiotic that is, blaming him for how _you_ feel? You're responsible for your own feelings, Sonia. No one can _force_ you to feel them."

Angry and frustrated, Sonia threw down her cigarette and smashed it under the toe of her shoe. "You just don't _understand_, Brian. I've lived my entire adult life believing I'm just not wired to have these kinds of feelings. And you know what, I was fine with that. I was _more_ than fine with it-"

"Were you _really_, though? We often tell ourselves we're fine when, on some level, we know we're really not. Denial's a pretty popular coping mechanism."

"Well...I admit I got kinda lonely sometimes, but life was simpler that way, you know? Everything was clear and it made _sense_. I knew who I was. Now, I just feel like I'm losing myself."

He looked her in the eyes. "Obviously you _are_ wired for those feelings. You aren't losing yourself, Sonia. You're just discovering a part of yourself you didn't think existed. Or maybe subconsciously you did know it existed, but you've been denying it, burying it."

_Hiding behind your precious fucking walls_, came a voice from the back of her mind that sounded too much like Trevor.

Sonia shook her head, glaring off at some point across the road. _Great, now I've got his fucking voice in my head. _Then she sent that glare over to Brian, because he'd started this shit. "Did you resign your Marshal position just to take up armchair psychiatry?"

Brian put his hands up. "I'm just trying to help you figure things out. And you know, what you're learning, it's not necessarily a bad thing. A lot of good comes out of feeling things for others."

"And like I said, I didn't ask for it._ I don't fucking want it_."

"How do you know, when you're only just discovering it? It's like when I first took you to the safe house in San Fierro. You hated it before you even saw it."

"And then when I did see it my hatred was justified," she countered. "It was a cramped, shitty apartment right near a busy highway, and I had to walk up eight flights of stairs because the elevator never worked."

"But there were still some good moments there," Brian said. "Like all those nights you, me, and Marshals Martinez and Calhoun chatted over beers or stayed up late playing Texas Hold 'Em, or betting on who was going to the next round on _Fame or Shame_, Martinez's wife baking you that rum cake for your birthday, you and Calhoun cooking up Italian dishes for all of us...I could go on and on."

"But I still went stir crazy there," Sonia said. "And Martinez or Calhoun could be the traitor who helped get your son killed. So, your point is irrelevant, Brian."

"It's not irrelevant. You thought it was going to be four long months of hell, but when you actually experienced it, it wasn't that bad, was it?"

"So, you're saying I should '_experience'_ my feelings for him before I decide if I want them or not?" she said in disbelief. "My feelings for this man who more than likely wants to _kill_ me? I'm a fucked up person, Brian, but even _I_ know how insane that sounds."

"Well, I suppose you have a point, but you still haven't explained why he more than likely wants to kill you."

Sonia waved it off. She didn't want to talk about it; she didn't even want to _think _about it. "It's not important."

"If someone wants you dead, I'd say the reason why is significant."

"Yeah, you'd think that, but you've never met Trevor. He doesn't need a reason-"

"_Sonia_. Come on."

She gritted her teeth. "I fucked up. That's all you need to know."

"How?" Brian pressed.

"What does it matter? It's done now and I-"

"How?"

"-I can't change it, even if I wanted to."

"_How_?"

It was one 'how' too much; she couldn't take his pushing anymore. The bitter anger at herself and the great guilt she felt rushed out of her, quick and turbulent as a flooding river.

Sonia shot up from her chair and leaned over Brian, closing her hands into fists so tight her nails bit into her palms. "I ran away, alright!? I got scared of the way I was feeling and I didn't want to be around him anymore, so I just left! And it hurt him, but I didn't think...I mean, I thought he would just get mad, you know? I didn't think he'd be hurt by it. That...it wasn't supposed to happen like that!" Her hands were shaking, her body was shaking, as the words and the emotions spilled out of her. "Are you fucking _satisfied_ now, Brian?! I already feel like a cowardly piece of shit; I hatemyself for it, I fucking _hate_ myself for it, but that's not enough for you, is it? You gotta push me, make me admit out loud so I can feel even worse! _God_, you're such an asshole!"

Brian blinked at her, his face blank. "If this guy is coming after you, I just wanted to know why. I may not be responsible for you in any official capacity, but I still consider you as a kind of friend."

_Well, fuck_. She cringed and looked down at her feet as heat crawled up her neck to her face. "Oh."

"Why don't you fix things with this guy?" Brian asked. "It sounds like you want to."

Sonia sighed as she sank back down in her chair and gazed out across the street, eying a small family of deer grazing the ground among a cluster of tall evergreens. The little fawn among them nursed at its mother, ears flicking back and forth contentedly. It was the first time she'd ever seen deer outside of a book or a TV screen.

"Doesn't matter what I want," she finally said. "I can't fix anything. The damage is done."

"You don't know that until you try. Besides, our worlds—yours, mine, his–-they've collided. We have common enemies."

Sonia gazed at him, narrowing her eyes. "Okay, I get it now. I see what you're doing. You're just trying to get me to stay here, so I'll help you with Pierno."

Brian smirked a little. "Maybe, but it's not just about that. And it's not like you don't get to benefit from it. We can take out our enemies if we all work together, and once it's all done and over with, I can go back to LV and try to salvage my marriage and keep what's left of my family together, and you can leave the program and live life however you want, without having to look over your shoulder all the time."

"You think that's how it's gonna work out? Just kill our mutual enemies and we all get to live happily ever after?" Sonia scoffed. "Come on, you're smarter than that, Brian. I ain't gonna benefit from helping you kill Paul Pierno. It's only gonna make my situation worse. If Lupo hadn't used one of your Marshals to find me, he would've just put a price on my head. If I help you with Paul, that's exactly what's gonna happen. Except it won't be Lupo who puts a price on me, it'll be Joe Pierno, and my head won't be the only one with the price tag on it. It'll be yours too, and probably Trevor's. We'll have the whole fucking underworld after us."

"So then we take out Joe Pierno too."

Sonia stared at him for a long time, searching his face, wondering if he was serious. His expression was hard and resolute and final. _He's gone off the deep end_, she decided. _He doesn't know what he's saying._

"Well, why don't we just try to assassinate the President while we're at it? It's the same improbability. Joe's too well protected, you know that."

"Presidents have been assassinated in the past, and so have mafia dons," Brian pointed out. "I'm a formal Marshal; I've been chasing criminals and protecting them from their own for seventeen years. I know how they think. I just need your help, yours and your friends. We can do this, I _know_ we can."

She shook her head at him, frowning. She didn't know who this man was anymore. He was a complete stranger. "What happened to you, Brian? You used to be so...law-abiding. Now, it's like the law means nothing to you."

"I lost my son. _My son!" _he shouted, displaying the anger smoldering inside him for the first time since she'd found out his son was dead. _"_The law would require a trial, and if it's a guilty verdict, a life sentence will probably be handed down. But the ones responsible for my son's murder don't deserve a trial or prison; they don't deserve the rights given to men. They deserve to be put down like the fucking animals they are."

"But the law is who you are. It's what you've always believed in, and you're going against all of it by doing this."

"All I am is an angry, grieving father. I don't expect you to understand now, but one day you will, Sonia. When you have children of your own, you'll look back on this day and you'll know why I did what I did. There's _nothing_ a parent wouldn't do for their child, not a damn thing they wouldn't sacrifice."

Sonia said nothing. She looked away, out across the street again at the deer still grazing in the woods, at the sweet, innocent little fawn now resting in the grass safely between its parents. And she realized she _had_ to do this, no matter how much she wanted to get as far away from her situation and her confusion as possible. She had to do it for Schmidt's son, for the little nine-year-old boy who would never get to grow up; the little boy who'd died so she could live.

She stood up from the chair and looked down at Brian. "If we're doing this, I guess we should go find Trevor. But I'm just warning you now, even if he can find it in himself to forgive what I did—and he more than likely _won't_—he ain't gonna be thrilled about teaming up with you. He hates cops, feds, any kind of authority. And I get the feeling you're not gonna like him, either."

"I don't have to like him and he doesn't have to know about my former career. Just call him, have him meet us out here."

"Can't. My phone's in his truck and I don't have his number memorized, so we're gonna have to hunt him down."

Brian nodded and pushed himself up from his seat. "Do you know where to find him?"

She thought about it, shrugged. "Maybe, I don't know. There's a few places we can check."

"Alright. You're driving."

* * *

When they got back into Sandy Shores, a troop of county Sheriff cruisers, two ambulances, and a firetruck surrounded the destroyed liquor store, the whole town nearly lit up by their flashing red and blue emergency lights. Cruisers had most of Algonquin Boulevard blocked off as well.

As Sonia drove past the scene, she saw a deputy putting up crime scene tape around the perimeter and the paramedics loading bodies into the back of the ambulances. More corpses were sprawled on the concrete in pools of blood, deputies standing over them. Some of the bodies were dressed in their beige uniforms.

"Jesus, what the hell happened? Those bodies weren't there before," Brian said.

"Trevor happened," Sonia said without any doubt. "He must've finally got back to town, saw his lab was destroyed, went apeshit."

"That's not good. If he's been arrested, we can't do anything about it, not if he killed cops. They're probably taking turns tuning him up in a cell right now."

"No, he won't surrender himself. He's infuriated, and when he's infuriated he doesn't think clearly, just acts. Hell, he barely thinks clearly when he's _not_ seeing red. I think he either evaded them or..." She frowned, biting down on her bottom lip in distress. "Fought to the death, taking as many of them with him as he could. I think the odds are pretty even on either one of those happening."

"Let's stop by your house first," Brian suggested.

Sonia looked at him. "What for?"

"I need to grab some things from my car."

"Can't it wait?"

"It won't take long, and we're going to need them eventually."

"Them?" Sonia asked as she turned onto Marina Drive.

"Guns."

"Ah. Good, guns. Definitely gonna need guns."

Sonia braked the Emperor in the driveway of her house, parking behind Brian's Asterope—a rental, she assumed, as she recalled his civilian vehicle being a white Gallivanter Baller and his Marshal vehicle being a black Landstalker.

The man stepped out of the car and went over to the other, pulling a key fob from his pants pocket. He unlocked the back door, opened it, then reached inside to pull out two black duffel bags. He hoisted both on his shoulders by their straps, then closed the door.

After depositing them in the back seats of the Emperor, Brian got in on the passenger side and Sonia reversed out of the driveway.

"_Both_ of those bags are full of guns?" she asked.

"One's guns, the other's ammo and a few accessories."

"How'd you even get all that past airport security?"

"I didn't have to. I bought all of it when I came out here," Brian answered. "The Ammunation clerk didn't even bat an eye."

"Of course not," Sonia chuckled. "Only in America can you buy enough guns to start World War Three without raising any eyebrows. You gotta love this country."

"Okay, so assuming your boyfriend evaded the deputies-"

"_Friend_," she corrected, "or not a friend, maybe a potential enemy now...you know what, just refer to him by name. Shit."

"I see you're still confused."

She shot him a look. "Shush it, Brian."

"So, where are we looking first?"

"His trailer, although I don't think he'll be there. And that may be a good thing, because I got a bad feeling about it."

"A bad feeling?"

"Yeah, I mean, if they knew where his cook site was, they probably know where he lives too. And if Paul is behind any of this like I think he is-"

"He might have wired a bomb to the trailer," Brian finished for her, nodding his head, "to finish him off. Wouldn't be the first time the mafia got rid of someone that way."

"Right."

Sonia turned onto Zancudo Avenue and soon braked the Emperor outside of a white, rust-damaged, corrugated trailer, surrounded by a chain link fence and the typical museum of redneck junk—old broken down appliances, used tires, garbage bags full of God knows what, and pieces of sheet metal and cardboard littering the yard.

"Nice place," Brian commented with much sarcasm. "The only things missing are the flamingo lawn ornaments and the derelict car held up on cinder blocks."

"You weren't this judgmental when you were relocating me here," Sonia pointed out.

"Hey, the rest of the town's not _this_ bad."

"It's exactly the same, Brian."

The pair exited the vehicle and walked through the gate in the fence. There were black, sooty patches all over the dirt yard—Sonia assumed it was from the grenades she had caught Trevor tossing around in his yard once while he was in the nude and assuredly intoxicated—and one of the decommissioned appliances had been blown apart, pieces of it scattered around. There was also a bad smell to the place, one Sonia was familiar with. It was the sweet and sour stench of death.

"Ugh," Brian groaned, putting a hand over his nose and mouth. "Is there a dead coyote around here or something?"

"Dead people, most likely."

He snapped his head to her, aghast. "Is that your idea of a joke?"

She shrugged, smirking. "Walk respectfully, Brian, as we may be walking over someone's shallow grave."

"...Jesus jumped up Christ."

Sonia stopped at the few steps that led up to the porch and bent over with her hands on her knees to inspect them closely. She didn't spot any trip wires, so she came up on the porch to check out the door next.

That's when Brian shot up the steps, snatched her arm, and yanked her back.

"_What_?" Sonia snapped at him.

He pointed to the floor just in front of the door. It wasn't visible to anyone standing on the porch and looking directly down—Sonia had to tilt her head down low to one side to see it—but the wooden panel was raised slightly from the rest of the floor. "Pressure trigger. If you'd stepped there we would have been blown to pieces."

Her heart swan dived into her stomach. "_Fuck_."

Sonia just stood there for a moment, staring down at the floor, as the shock of almost being blown up slowly gave way to her anger. And then that anger turned into a surge of cold rage.

She came down off the porch and stormed off across the yard, booting something from her path, her fingers closing tight into her palms. She wasn't sure why she was so angry when she'd known Pierno likely would have resorted to this. Perhaps it was simply having it confirmed and made real, or perhaps it was simply the unfairness of it, the fact that Trevor was being targeted by people he'd never even met before, let alone had offended in any way, and the excessive lengths Pierno and Brice were going to to kill him.

"Sonia, calm down," Brian tried to ease her as he followed.

Sonia shot him a heated look as she came to a stop at driver's side of the Emperor. "I am calm! This is me being calm!" She banged her fist down on the roof of the car. "They have _no right_ coming after him like this! I'll be the first to admit he's far from a good person, but he's never done shit to these fuckers!"

"You mean aside from blowing up Brice's mobile meth lab?" Brian dared. "He's not any more innocent in this than they are."

"That asshole _started_ this shit!" Sonia shouted at him as she wrenched the door open.

As soon as Brian got in, she gunned the Emperor down the street a ways, then took a hard left onto another, the car fishtailing a bit. She pulled into the miniscule parking lot in front of the local Sheriff's station and yanked the gearstick into park.

"I thought you said he wouldn't surrender himself? Why're we here?" Brian inquired.

"The commander here owes me a favor, so I'm calling it in."

Brian opened his mouth to further question her, but Sonia was out of the car before he could. She didn't have the patience right now to explain.

She shoved her way through the glass door with the gold Sheriff's star painted on it, anger still pulsing in her veins.

The station was a madhouse.

Beige-uniformed officers bustled about the place to the din of clanging telephones and the clamor of raised voices. Some spoke of the explosion in town, but most were arguing and discussing the deaths of quite a few of their beige brethren.

Sonia weaved her way through the bedlam to the front desk, where a man in uniform was juggling tasks, speaking on the phone, typing at his computer, and glancing over whatever papers were thrown under his nose in the moment.

"I need to speak with Commander Cain," Sonia said to him, raising her voice to be heard. "Now."

"Hold on one moment, ma'am," the officer spoke into the phone. Sweat glistened on his brow and stained the pits of his tan, button-up shirt, which was open and loose at the collar. His black tie and shiny name badge were askew and his short, graying hair stood up, as if it had been ruffled many times in frustration. "Listen, lady," he said to Sonia, "if it ain't a life or death emergency, he can't see you. With that explosion in town and eight citizens and ten of our officers murdered in cold blood, we're all up to our necks in shit right now."

Sonia reached out and snatched the phone from his hand, slamming it down in its cradle.

"Hey, you can't-"

"I just did," she cut in. "Now you're gonna listen. I know who was behind it all; I saw it. I got a name, but I'll only give it to the Commander."

The man's brow furrowed. "You know who blew up Liquor Ace?"

"That's what I said. Now, are you gonna take me to Cain or am I gonna have to find him myself?"

The officer looked at her with new interest, then motioned to her. "Come with me."

She followed him through the rowdy headquarters, and down a short corridor where more deputies were buzzing around. The officer stopped before a glass door with 'Commander' painted on it in gold and black letters. Inside Sonia could see the obese Commander sitting at his cluttered desk, speaking on the phone. The officer knocked and Commander Cain beckoned him. They stepped inside.

"I got a witness to the bombing here," he said. "Says she'll only talk to you."

Cain drew the phone down from his ear, covering the bottom half with his palm. "Who..." He trailed off, sighting Sonia standing there with the officer. "Oh. Uh...okay. Come in, have a seat. You can leave us, Sampson."

The officer nodded and stepped out, shutting the door behind him. Cain spoke a few words to the person on the other end of the phone, then dropped it in its cradle.

Sonia, smiling, took a seat in one of the chairs in front of Cain's desk, crossing her legs. "So, how's the foot?"

The Commander eyed her with pure contempt. "Healed, thanks for fucking asking. Look, I've got enough on my plate right now. I don't need-"

"What you need is to find the culprit who murdered a handful of civilians and several of your officers," Sonia cut him off, "and the one who blew up a liquor store in town."

"We already know who murdered them," Cain said with disinterested tones. "There's a statewide arrest warrant out on Trevor Philips as we speak. But if you know-"

That was what she thought was going to happen, and half the reason why she was there. "Trevor had nothing to do with those murders."

Cain waved that off, dismissively. "I have a witness who saw him mow them all down with a fucking assault rifle."

"Just a witness? No physical evidence?"

"Unfortunately, no. There could and likely are more people who witnessed it, but they're too terrified of him to come forward. That deranged trash has been a plague on this town since the day he-"

"Trash?" Sonia clipped in. "That's rich coming from a man who rapes prostitutes and solicits minors."

Cain flushed with anger, his hands curling tight around the arms of his chair. "He killed a lot of good men, good men with families. He's going to be arrested and he's going to get the needle like he fucking deserves, even if I have to put it in his arm myself!"

"Well, I have to disagree, because you have no evidence and your witness was mistaken." Her voice was calm and casual, as if she was merely making small talk with him. "I mean, he has to be, right? Surely one man, plague or not, couldn't murder ten deputies of Blaine County's _competent_ Sheriff's department. That's about, what, fifty percent of the force in this town? And if one man _could_, then it's a sure bet the Sheriff himself is gonna investigate _your _competency as the Commander of this station. You don't want that now, do you? Those photos of you engaging in your...debauched nightly activities might fall into the Sheriff's hands." She gave him a nasty, shark-like smile. "Actually, I'll make sure of it."

"I see," Cain spoke, his voice laced with venom. "But that ain't the agreement we had, Sonia. The agreement was to make any of your potential problems with the law go away, not someone else's."

"His problems just became my problems, and you _are_ gonna make them go away. You're gonna make me your key witness, then you're gonna call off the warrant."

"How do you expect me to do that? I just can't ignore written witness statement. That's not how it works."

"It's simple, Cain. You 'lose' that written witness statement, and I write you a new one."

Cain looked at her as if he was only now understanding what she was demanding of him. "You want this pinned on someone else. Who?"

"Brice and Rick Murphy. Trevor may or may not have killed those people, but I know for fucking fact that they're the ones responsible for that liquor store blowing up."

"And it's no secret that Philips took ownership of that property a few years ago, after the original owner 'cut his own throat in a freak shaving accident'."

"Tie it all together, pin everything on them," Sonia continued. "Then your officers can sleep better at night knowing the ones responsible are gonna be brought to justice. And you can sleep better at night knowing your job is secure and your dirty little secret stays in the dark."

"Partly the ones responsible."

"I know the truth, you know the truth. As for the rest of them, it ain't gonna matter as long as they think the responsible parties are paying for it."

Cain sat quiet for several moments, thinking, stubby fingers scratching at his double chin. "And if I do this for you..."

"I get rid of those compromising photos and our agreement is void. We're done."

"And how do I know you don't have copies of those photos somewhere?"

"You don't," Sonia said with a shrug. "You're just gonna have to trust me."

Cain laughed sardonically as he heaved his huge behind from his chair. "You don't ask a lot, do you?" He crossed the room to a filing cabinet, opened it and rifled around inside. He came out with a pad of blank, yellow paper and tossed it on the desk in front of her. "I want to see proof that those photos are gone. Write your 'statement' and sign it at the bottom, and be aware that you're going to be called in for an official interview about 'what you saw'. Then you can finally get the fuck out of my life."

Sonia grabbed a pen from the holder on his desk and scribbled her witness statement. She made sure it was good.

* * *

Sonia may as well have only pressed pause on Brian. As soon as she got back behind the steering wheel of the Emperor, the man resumed his questioning.

"What did you do?"

"I told you."

"It was a vague answer."

She sighed. "Alright, fine. A while back I caught the commander of the Sheriff's station raping a prostitute, and I also have it on good authority that he's known to solicit an underage girl, so I took the opportunity to blackmail him in case I ever came into any 'legal' problems out here."

Brian rolled his eyes and shook his head. "I guess I shouldn't be surprised."

"No, you really shouldn't. Anyway, he confirmed there's a statewide arrest warrant out on Trevor, so I made him call it off and pin everything that's happened on Brice and his brother."

"The way you've made Trevor sound, he's not going to be happy if they end up getting arrested and he's robbed of his revenge."

Sonia shook her head. "They won't, not if Brice and his brother have partnered with Paul, and I'm almost a hundred percent certain they have. Paul will protect his investment. And if the deputies become enough of a nuisance for them, they won't risk making any moves that're going to draw more attention to themselves. They'll be sitting ducks."

"They don't really need to make anymore moves, Sonia," Brian said. "They've already pulled Trevor's business to the ground."

"But they made the big mistake of not making sure he was pulled down with it. When they realize the bikers failed and the bomb they planted at his trailer wasn't triggered, they'll need to find and eliminate him, except they won't be able to when they have half the county deputies looking for them. That'll keep them busy and give us time to plan their demise."

"_If _everything goes how you think it will."

"Everything in life is just one big goddamn if, Brian."

"I guess. So, where to next?"

"I think we should keep looking around this area. If I know him as well as I think I do, he'll leave a trail of death in his wake. Maybe it'll lead us right to him."

That turned out to be the right decision.

As Sonia found her way onto Panorama Drive and drove past the railroad tracks, intending on having a look at the Yellowjack Inn, Sandy Shores Airfield came up on the right and she slammed on the brakes.

The airfield was the site of a slaughter.

Pulling the car onto the scene, Sonia saw a handful of bullet-riddled, mangled, and dismembered corpses littering the start of the paved runway, resting in puddles of blood. Oddly, none of them were dressed in the beige uniforms of the Sheriff's Department. Perhaps Cain had already canceled that arrest warrant on Trevor before his officers could track him there, or maybe they simply hadn't tracked him there yet. Perhaps Trevor had been right about their gross ineptitude.

The dead looked like locals, all of them dressed in civilian clothes and some of them had been armed; she saw a few pistols and shotguns laying among the bodies. Sonia couldn't make heads or tails of this, whether these people had foolishly followed him here of their own volition or if they had been lured off the streets to their deaths.

"Jesus Christ, Sonia..." Brian breathed, looking at her, his brow deeply furrowed. "It's like something out of a horror movie. Who the fuck are we dealing with here?"

"A pissed off lunatic who just lost the only thing that matters to him," she said. "Wait in the car this time."

He gaped at her as if she'd spoken the most ridiculous words he'd ever heard. "What? I'm not staying-"

"Just do it, alright? You might make things worse." She shot him a smile of confidence that was more forced than genuine. "Trust me; I know what I'm doing." _At least I hope I do._

Sonia exited the car and started for the hangar, stepping over a few bodies on the ground. She saw the savage red rage that had been inflicted upon them. One of them had an arm missing from the elbow down, the severed appendage laying near the corpse. Half of the person's head was gone too, as if it had been hacked off. Another corpse was just as cruelly mutilated, covered in gashing wounds that went bone deep, the features of the face destroyed beyond recognition.

She paused when she noticed a carbine rifle laying on the ground and a trail of blood leading away from one of the bodies. She followed it, and it took her between an old rusty trailer and the dilapidated shell of an even older bus and past the small control tower, which was pushed up to an open ramshackle building perhaps once used for maintenance or storage.

Sonia found him inside that building, sitting on the dusty floor with his back against a wall, knees bent, hands pressed against either side of his bowed head as if he were suffering a massive headache. He was covered in blood, and she was almost certain not a speck of it was his; he didn't appear injured, at least not physically. Near the front where Sonia stood, a hatchet lay on the floor, stained in blood from handle to blade.

The man was devastated. She felt it as much as she could see it. It was suffused in his posture, in the very air around him, and in the frequent, shattered bursts of breath he released. It almost sounded like he was sobbing.

That did not mean the rage had run its course, however, so Sonia announced her presence from a safe distance, unsure of how he would react. She would have liked to think he wouldn't do anything to her, but that was just plain dumb. The man was dangerous enough as it was, and now that he had so obviously snapped and most assuredly hated her guts for the transgression she had committed against him, her chance of coming out of this unscathed was extremely low.

"Trevor?"

Surprisingly, he made no reaction to her voice. He just sat there, heaving out those broken breaths.

"I couldn't leave," she went on, though she knew that wouldn't matter to him. She simply didn't know what else to say. "I shouldn't have in the first place. I fucked up. I'm sorry, Trevor. I'm so sorry."

She felt a deep pang in her heart for him, for having so much taken from him in only a span of a few hours. The guilt was there too, still.

_If I hadn't been such a coward..._

Sonia stepped over to him as some inexorable need to comfort him overcame her better judgment. She knelt down in front of him, catching the reek of blood, sweat, and dirt that clung to him, and reached out to pull his hands from his head.

The moment she touched him he lashed out with a yell, quick and with such force it knocked her on her back. Her head banged off the concrete, her vision shattering into fragments of white light.

Only seconds later, she felt heavy weight pushing down on her stomach and a crushing pressure at her throat, shutting off her windpipe. When the light cleared her eyes, she realized he was straddling her lower torso, strangling her. She could feel the rage in the grip he had on her throat, could see it on his contorted, blood-spattered face and in his eyes, where its unholy flame smoldered. It was a rage so intense, so inhuman that it sent an icy prickle of fear up her spine.

Choking for air, Sonia fought back, hitting at him where she could, but she might as well have been trying to strike at a brick wall; the enraged man was unfazed by the blows. She tried something else, grabbing onto his wrists and digging her nails in until she felt the warmth of blood under her fingers.

Trevor growled at her like the brutal beast he was, reinforcing the pressure he had on her windpipe.

She made an agonized, gagging sound, and fearing he was going to crush her throat, she bucked wildly under him, trying to throw him off.

But he would not budge.

_No one should be this strong, _she thought as the lightheadedness and the panic began to set in.

Her hand scrabbled around on the ground for anything she could use. Her fingers brushed something. She never saw what it was. She clutched the solid, blunt object and smashed it into the side of Trevor's head, knocking him sideways and forcing a pained bark from him.

The moment his weight left her, Sonia struggled to get to her feet, gasping and coughing as air seared down her bruised trachea to fill her lungs. She only got half-risen when his hand grabbed her ankle and wrenched it out from under her. She fell forward, breaking her fall on her elbows and forearms.

Trevor yanked her across the concrete floor to him. Sonia twisted like a snake and struck out with her free foot. It connected with his chest and he reared back on his knees with a grunt, losing his grip on her ankle.

Rising to her own knees, she pounced on him, forcing him back on the concrete, straddling his pelvis. One hand locked on his throat, pushing him into the ground. The other clenched into a fist, drew back, slammed across his face.

"_Stop_!" she pleaded, her voice a barely there croak. Her throat burned like fire and throbbed with its own aching pulse.

Trevor was beyond listening.

Spitting a string of vicious curses at her, he made a fist of his own and cracked her across the cheek with it, sending her sprawling.

Her ears ringing, her face throbbing, Sonia rolled away from him and pushed herself up. She swiveled around to find him already standing, bending over to reach the hatchet on the ground.

_No, you don't,_ she thought, because her throat hurt too much to give her words a voice.

Sonia propelled herself at Trevor and tackled him in his bent over stance, his fingers barely brushing the hatchet's handle.

The pair flew from the shelter of the building and flailed to the ground, sand and dirt and dust puffing up around them. He rolled on top of her, grabbed handfuls of her shirt, lifted her up by it. His face, a map of scars and rage and misery, was mere inches from her own.

"I trusted you! I gave you my fucking _heart_! How can you just fucking run out on me like this!?" he wailed as he slammed her back into the ground. It was weird, like he was still stuck in that moment she told him she couldn't be around him anymore. He yanked her up again until they were face to face, eye to eye. "I shoulda fucking killed you a long time ago!"

Sonia lifted her head as her back hit the ground again, harder than the last time, hard enough to knock her breath from her lungs. His left hand came around her damaged throat again, his right squeezed into a fist.

Sonia's hand curled into the sand, clenched some of it, pitched it at his eyes, just as she had done to Sergio Vigliotti. It was dirty, so to speak, but it was tried and true; no one had ever seen it coming yet.

"Arrrgh!" Trevor cried out in utter outrage as he recoiled and rubbed at his eyes with the heels of his palms.

She hooked a leg across the small of his back, grabbed the front of his shirt, threw her weight to one side. They rolled, wrestling with each other. She had the dominate position for a whole thirty seconds before he, still half-blind, was able to grab hold of her upper arms and fling her off him. She landed on her back with a winded _uuf!_.

Levering herself up with her hands, Sonia saw him and she didn't know why she hadn't seen him before, why she hadn't at least heard him.

Brian loomed behind Trevor, who was now climbing to his feet, still trying to rub the grit out of his eyes. He didn't know Brian was there.

In the former Marshals' hand was a pistol, which he begin to lift to the back of Trevor's head.

Sonia's eyes widened, her heart seized. She tried to give voice, to call Brian off, but her voice failed.

And Brian did what he had to do.


	18. Chapter 17: Making Amends

**A/N:** So, how about that Game of Thrones season finale? _Jeeeesuuuus! _Am I right?

Anyway.

Many, many thanks for the reviews! Absolutely made my day. 3 Hopefully this chapter will make _your _day. If not, well, I'll give myself a spanking and try harder next time.

* * *

**Chapter Seventeen: Making Amends**

* * *

It didn't take much to put Trevor down.

When Brian hit the unsuspecting man with the butt of his gun, it was a strategically placed blow; on the head, right above the ear. It would've knocked anyone out, and could often prove fatal with the right amount of strength behind it. Fortunately for Trevor, Brian had no intention of killing him.

When the man dropped unconscious to the ground, Sonia looked up at Brian with both relief and rage.

Brian stared back, frowning. "He was trying to kill you."

She opened her mouth, tried to speak, cringed. Her hand came up against her throat, rubbing gingerly.

Brian took a knee in front of her and bent his head low to one side to get a better look at her neck. There were bands of deep red and dark purple across her throat. Brian inspected the bleeding weal high up on her cheekbone next. The flesh around it was red and starting to bruise as well, but the gash wasn't deep enough to need any stitches.

He pulled back with a sigh, meeting her gaze. "Your face isn't too bad, but he did a number on your neck. Any trouble breathing or swallowing, any tightness in your throat?"

Sonia shook her head.

"Just hurts to talk?"

She nodded.

Brian frowned. "It still worries me. Maybe we should get you to a hospital, just to be safe."

This time Sonia shook her head hard and glared at him.

"It would make me feel better."

She shrugged_._ She pointed at Trevor, then at the car.

"You're right," said the former Marshal, his voice carrying a hint of anger. "We _should_ leave him here and let the deputies find him with all these butchered and bullet-riddled bodies."

Sonia folded her arms at her chest, looking unamused.

Brian put his hands up in resignation. "All right, all right. But first things first."

He stood, strode back to the Emperor, and rummaged around in the back seats for some moments. When he returned, he was holding a pair of handcuffs, which Sonia gazed upon with disapproval before giving Brian the stink eye.

"Don't give me that look," he scolded. "That man is a rabid animal, and rabid animals should be put down. Be grateful I'm only restraining him."

He put his foot on Trevor's side and shoved him over on his stomach, then he bent over the man to yank his arms back.

When the cuffs were secured to Trevor's wrists, Brian began dragging him over to the car, Sonia heading him off. She opened up the back door and reached in to move the duffel bags full of guns and ammo off the back seats and onto the floor. Then the pair worked together to get the unconscious man in the car, struggling with his weight and limp limbs.

Once that was taken care of, they got in the Emperor and headed back to the Bayview Lodge, Brian driving.

Neither of them spoke.

Sonia stared out the passenger window, watching the scenery glide by, trying not to think about the unconscious man in the back seat and what had happened out at the airfield. But every time she felt a twinge of pain from the injuries he'd inflicted on her, she was reminded of that look on his face, that raw hatred and anger.

She hadn't given any thought to how her running off would affect him; her terror and confusion had done her thinking for her. But now that the initial feeling of fear had become more tolerable and she was beginning to understand, to some degree, what was happening to her, she could devote her mind to comprehending the full impact of her actions, _why _they had affected him the way they did.

At first glance, he seemed to be grossly overreacting; it was as if she'd blown up his meth lab rather than just running away from him. He'd claimed in his outrage that she was 'just like the fucking rest', so it seemed she wasn't the first to take off on him, or the second. She remembered him telling her once, when he was talking about his childhood, how his 'father' had left him behind at a shopping mall. Intentionally, just left him there to fend for himself. It would have been a frightening and traumatic experience for any child, to be left behind like garbage by someone you trusted to care for you, with no idea what to do, where to go, how to get back home. She wondered if his reaction stemmed from that; maybe, to some degree, he was reliving that trauma every time someone decided to leave him.

If so, it was no small wonder he had reacted the way he did. She could not even begin to imagine how terrible it would be to have to relive her own childhood trauma.

It made her feel even worse. All she could do was try to make amends, and hope to God that he would forgive her. He seemed to possess some capacity to forgive; after all, he'd pardoned Michael's betrayal, at least to some degree where they could still remain friends.

_But you're not Michael_, a little voice in her mind pointed out. _You don't have twenty odd years of friendship with him. You have two _weeks_ of...what? Some kind of relationship that can't even be categorized. You have nothing solid, no foundation to work with._

Except he'd claimed to be in love with her, but then was that even there anymore? Perhaps it had never been there to begin with. Maybe he'd just mistaken one emotion for another, love for lust; it was known to happen. She was no expert in the department, but most people didn't try to kill the one's they claimed to love.

Then again, Trevor was not most people. And then there was all the shit that had come after she'd run off, the total destruction of his business, the devastation and rage that had resulted from that. The man was uncontrolled enough when he wasn't pissed off, and she'd seen what he was capable of when his dander was up. But this time had been different. She'd never seen so much rage in another human being before.

Still...

A hand touched her shoulder and shook her from her thoughts. She turned her head and met Brian's concerned stare.

"We're here," he said. "Are you okay? You looked like you were in another world."

She nodded and glanced out the windshield. They were in the parking lot of the Bayview Lodge, idling in a space right outside the front office. She hadn't even noticed they'd arrived.

"I'm going to book a separate room for him," Brian informed. "He doesn't need to be around Ruth."

"He's..." Sonia started, then paused, grimacing at the grated pain that one word caused as it left her throat. She forced the rest out anyway. "Cuffed."

Brian shook his head. "I don't care. He stays isolated until he's calmed the fuck down."

Sonia rose her hands up, resigning from the issue. Brian hadn't been wrong in calling Trevor a rabid animal. Perhaps isolation would be best for the time being. It certainly wouldn't hurt anything.

Brian got out and went inside the building.

Some moments later, Sonia heard a groan from the back seat and turned a bit to look over her shoulder. Trevor was sprawled out back there in an awkward position, lying back on his cuffed wrists. He wasn't moving and his eyes were still closed, but the groan indicated he was starting to come around. Good thing, too. He'd been out for almost an hour now, a concerning amount of time. Any longer and they would've had real cause for alarm.

Brian came out of the front office with a room key in hand and slid in behind the steering wheel. "I got a room close by Ruth's. Number eight."

He parked the Emperor in a spot outside the room and handed Sonia the key. She got out to go unlock the door as Brian dragged the unconscious man from the back seat, closing the car's back door with his foot.

He intended to dump the man on the bed, but Sonia banged a fist against the wall to get his attention. When he looked at her, she pointed to the bathroom. Brian didn't seem to understand why she wanted this, but he hauled the man off into the bathroom nonetheless. She stepped in behind him and flipped the light on, then swept aside the shower curtain. She indicated that he should put the man in the tub. Brian did so, minding Trevor's head as he eased him inside.

Sonia pulled up the shower head lever, giving the cold water knob a twist as she did so. Frigid water soon began jetting from the shower head, hitting Trevor full in face. She had figured she might as well kill two birds with one stone; the man was covered in blood that needed to be washed away before he could go out in public again, lest he attract unnecessary attention, and the cold water would help bring him into full consciousness.

It worked almost instantly, his body jolting as if by electric shock, his eyes flying open. He wrenched his face away from the water pouring down into it and tried to pull himself up, only to discover his hands were secured behind him.

Trevor struggled with the metal restraints for a minute, then his eyes cut up to Sonia's, lingering there for one furious and confused moment before they flickered over to the unfamiliar face at his left. He scowled and snarled out,"Who the fuck are you!? And why the fuck am I in fucking handcuffs!?"

Unconsciousness hadn't done much to cool his flared up temper it seemed.

"I'm Brian, a friend of Sonia's, and you're in handcuffs because you tried to kill her," the former Marshal stated.

"And as soon as I'm free, I'm gonna _finish the fucking job_!" Trevor seethed as he shoved his boots up against the other end of tub, pushing and squirming around until he got himself into an upright position. He seemed oblivious to the cold water still pouring down upon his head. It had washed away the blood on his face, arms, and hands, but more was _still _coming off him, eddying down the drain in an unbroken red flood.

"You might want to reconsider," said Brian.

"Oh, _really_? And why the fuck would I want to do that?"

"Because you need her and me, as much as we both need you. I'm sure Sonia explained to you about Sergio Vigliotti, the man who spirited away your enemy, and whom he works for."

"The _coward_ might have mentioned something about it," Trevor said, his tone irascible and insolent. "What's your fucking point?"

Brian leaned back against the bathroom counter, folding his arms at his chest. "Sonia suspected that the family he worked for, the Piernos, have taken a special interest in your enemy, and recent developments have confirmed this. What's more, the Piernos also seem responsible for the destruction of your business. While we were out searching for you, Sonia and I paid your home a visit and we found a pressure trigger on the porch, wired to a bomb. Typical mafia move, and I think we can both agree it's no coincidence that we found a bomb at your home the same day your operation goes up."

"Covering all their bases," Sonia spoke as she mirrored Brian's posture. Her voice was nothing more than a croak.

Brian nodded. "Right. If they couldn't kill you one way, they would kill you another. By now they know they've failed and they'll know you're going to come after Murphy, but with Sonia siccing the county deputies on Brice and his brother, the Piernos can't do much but keep Brice in hiding until the heat dies down and you're dealt with. If we're lucky, though, the deputies might make the connection between Brice and the family. That'll keep them from making any further moves."

"If we're not lucky, they might use Brice as bait," Sonia rasped, avoiding eye contact with the man in the tub, "to lure you to them, into another ambush."

"Well, fucking let them," Trevor snapped, his eyes dark and stormy. "I'll destroy them like I destroyed those fucking bikers."

Brian shook his head. "They _aren't_ bikers. They're mafia; they're organized and cunning. They may use Brice as bait, as Sonia said, or they may just hire a hitman to deal with you. There's a good possibility of that happening even if the deputies don't cause them any trouble. And that hitman will be someone you'd never suspect. You might walk past him or _her _on the street and not know it until its too late. Or you may never know it at all."

"I've already warned him about how dangerous they are," Sonia said, "but he doesn't listen."

"I'm _sorry_ if I'm a little suspicious of what comes out of _your_ fucking mouth," Trevor spat at her. "It's hard to distinguish what's truth and what's just one more _lie _from the fucking Queen of Deceit!"

She frowned as she stared down at her feet, still bare, dirty, and scratched up from her earlier flight from him. She hadn't had the time to change clothes or put on any shoes.

"Anyway," Brian said, pushing the moment on. "We need to-"

"And you can fuck off with that 'we' shit," Trevor cut him off. "There's no '_we_'. There's only _me_. Me and them, and me killing the lot of them. I don't need you and I sure as _fuck _don't need her. In fucking fact, I'm looking forward to adding your butchered carcasses to the body count!"

"You think you can find Brice Murphy on your own?"

"I did before, I'll do it again."

"You had help before," Sonia reminded him. "You never would've found him if I hadn't slept with him, if I hadn't kept his phone number."

Brian looked at her, surprised. "You _slept _with him? You failed to mention that."

"Oh, I'm sure there's _plenty _she's failed to mention," Trevor shot, scathingly. "Withholding information people have the right to know, lying,_ betraying trust_, being a wretched coward_—_she's honed them all to a fucking art form. _Right_, princess?"

"Right," she snapped, unable to help her anger, even if a part of her knew she deserved his contempt. She finally made eye contact with the man, her hands squeezing into tight fists. "I'm a lying, deceitful coward and you're so fucking perfect, incapable of making _mistakes!_ Do you feel better now?"

"I'll feel _better_ when I rip your emotionless stone heart right outta your fucking chest!" he roared, his arms wrenching violently as if he thought he could break through those handcuffs by his strength alone.

Brian stared between the fuming pair, shaking his head as he rose his hands in a placating gesture. "You both need to calm down. This animosity isn't going to help us. In fact, you're just giving the enemy something to use against us. Besides, you're both going on a trip together soon, and you need to work-"

"What do you mean?" Sonia cut him off, frowning. "'A trip'?"

"I was thinking about it when we were driving back to the motel, how we need to handle this," Brian explained. "Word'll get to Joe Pierno eventually about his son's death, and he'll put prices on our heads, like you said. If we want to avoid that, we need to get to Joe first before I deal with his son."

"Doesn't that defeat the purpose of why you even came out here? I thought you wanted to get revenge on Joe by killing his son? If he's dead, he ain't gonna know his son is."

"I do want revenge, and I will get it. You're not going to _kill _Joe Pierno, you're going to kidnap him and bring him out here. And as well protected as he is, you're going to need his help to do that." He gestured at Trevor before continuing. "While you're both handling Pierno senior, I'm going to try to locate Murphy; if I keep shadowing Paul, I think he'll eventually lead me to the man. When you both get back, I'm going to need help getting to Paul, since he's well protected too." Brian's hand slid to the grip of the pistol holstered at his hip as he envisioned how this was all going to play out. "I'm going to sit Paul and his father down in the same room. They'll be tied up, of course, facing each other; Joe's going to have a front row seat when I put a bullet in his son's head, the same way his enforcers did to _my_ son."

"Whoa, hold the fuck on. You mean to tell me you're _actually_ expecting me to help _you_?" Trevor asked in utter disbelief. "I honestly can't tell if you're just an assuming prick or a complete fucking moron. Either way, you can take your little revenge quest and go diddle yourself with it. It ain't got shit to do with me."

Brian rose a brow and glanced at Sonia. "Is he always this charming?"

She rolled her eyes.

Brian focused on the man again. "To answer your question, yes, I expect you to help...in exchange for Brice Murphy. You won't find him without me. Besides, the Piernos are as much your enemy as they are mine, and you know what they say, the enemy of my enemy is my friend."

"Yeah, well, _I_ say go fuck yourself, I'll take my chances on my own."

Brian's jaw clenched in frustration. "I can always not give you a choice in the matter. Did she ever tell you about me, what I do for a living? I'm a United States Marshal—well, a former Marshal, but I still have a bit of weight to throw around-"

Realizing Brian's intentions, Sonia grabbed onto his arm and cut him off angrily, "Brian, don't you fucking _dare._"

But Brian didn't listen. "And I know all about you, Trevor. I know you manufacture and sell meth and run guns. I know you're a dangerous criminal-"

Trevor shot Sonia a look of boiling hatred. "So, it wasn't _enough_ to fucking run off on me, you had to go and run off your fucking mouth to this government shitbag too? _Fuck_! I can't even...you are fucking _dead_, you treacherous little-"

She shook her head wildly, frowning. "It wasn't like that! I-"

Brian cut her off before she could finish explaining. "I know I can tell my former superiors about your lengthy criminal activity out here and have you thrown in prison for a _very_ long time. Or you can provide some assistance in dealing with the Piernos, which'll benefit both of us, and I'll keep my mouth shut. Sound like a fair arrangement?"

Sonia groaned and covered her face with her hands. This couldn't possibly get any worse.

"Well, you have fun trying to prove I was ever involved in anything," Trevor growled, "considering _all_ the evidence was burnt to a fucking crisp."

Brian got a nasty grin. "I don't need evidence when I got a witness." He looked pointedly at Sonia. "All I have to do is threaten her with some prison time and she'll sing to a jury about all your dirty little deeds, won't you, Sonia?"

For a moment, Sonia merely gaped at him in shock. She'd been wrong before. _Now_ it couldn't possibly get any worse. It was bad enough threatening Trevor, but now he was threatening her, trying to force her into a corner the way the FIB had done in order to get Lupo. He'd given her his _word_ that he wouldn't use what she'd told him against them, that they would be immune from any prosecution. She'd thought he was different. She'd thought he was on her side, as much as she was on his. She couldn't believe she'd trusted him.

Steeped in fury, Sonia cocked a fist and rammed it into Brian's face. "_Motherfucker_!"

Brian tried to grab onto her, but Sonia socked him again and then a third time, busting his nose. She couldn't think, couldn't see, couldn't breathe for that anger burning inside her. How dare he! How fucking _dare_ he!

As the man backed off with a curse, a hand cupping his bleeding nose, Sonia turned on her heel and stormed out of the bathroom. She yanked open the door to the motel room and fled into the open air, where she could breathe again. She sucked in the balmy oxygen and held it in her lungs. When the red fog lifted from her sight and mind, bitter tears stung at her eyes and she felt something she hadn't felt in months. A familiar itch, a deeply-seeded need to stick a needle in her arm and fill her veins with euphoric poison; just for a while she wanted to forget her situation—_everything_—and feel good again. Just for a while. Because that's what had made the heroin and it's trap worth it, those blissful moments when the poison pulled her from her miserable existence, anesthetizing every pain and stopping every tormenting thought.

She squeezed her eyes shut and drove the heel of her palm against her forehead, as if she could smash out all the terrible thoughts and the horrible feelings overwhelming her system. She was losing her grip, on what was going on around her, on her own goddamn emotions, on herself; everything was slipping through her fingers like sand, scattering into a turbulent wind.

She gritted her teeth._ What is _wrong_ with me? Stop it, stop it, stop it._

A hand fell on her shoulder. "Sonia, listen-"

Sonia opened her eyes and whirled on Brian, pointing a shaking finger at him. "Get the fuck away from me, you bastard. I trusted you!" She flinched at her own words; had Trevor not said that same thing to her? _Now you know how it fucking feels being betrayed. You're just getting what you deserve. _She clapped her hands against the sides of her head, biting back a scream. Why did the thought have to sound like him too?

"I _know_," Brian said, his injured nose giving his voice a nasally sound, "and I would've thought you'd know I'd never betray that trust. It was a _bluff_, Sonia. I'm not the FIB; I'd never force you to betray a friend. I was just trying to rattle the guy, to get him on board."

Her hands fell away from her head as she heaved out a sigh. "Damn it, Brian, I wish you would've told me what you were going to do beforehand. He's not the kind of guy who gets nervous when he's threatened. He'll just _kill_ you."

"I can only work with whatever options are available to me, Sonia. And the only option he left me with was threats. If threats aren't going to get him on board, then I don't know what else to do."

Sonia perched herself upon one of the picnic tables outside the motel office and diner as she tried to think of other options, her eyes peering out at the ocean just across the street. The sky was lighter now, colored with the violet-grey of dawn. Far, far out across the water, on the horizon, gloomy cumulonimbus ships sailed close to the surface of the ocean, moving unhurriedly shoreward. It was going to storm again.

"I _am_ going to need help kidnapping Joe," Sonia said at last, "but it doesn't _have _to be Trevor, you know. Isn't there someone, maybe an old friend of yours or something, who can help?"

Brian shook his head. "I wouldn't have suggested him if there was anyone else. What about you, anyone from your old life you can trust?"

"Brian, I'll be lucky if I don't get murdered my first night back in Las Venturas."

Brian heaved out an irritated sigh and leaned his hands on the picnic table, hanging his head between his arms. "Then the plan is fucked, and my son's murderer gets away with his crime."

"Why couldn't they arrest Joe Pierno for it? You knew those men who came to your house were his enforcers. Shouldn't that have been enough?"

"Joe was questioned for it, and unsurprisingly denied any responsibility. And there's no proof he sent those men. There's only the traitor among the Marshals, who's yet to be caught. And even when he does get caught, he's probably not going to talk."

"He will if they offer him a deal, like the FIB offered me. You know what they do to cops and feds in prison. He'll _happily_ squeal for a deal."

"Assuming Joe Pierno doesn't get to the traitor before the investigators do. If he even senses that anyone's onto the bastard, he'll have him iced in a heart beat. I'm surprised he hasn't had him iced already."

"He will when the time's right. He probably doesn't want to make the move too soon, put more unwanted suspicion on the family," Sonia speculated. "A murdered fed usually leads to an undercover agent infiltrating the suspected family. When that happens, someone usually gets caught and turns rat."

"I guess you would know," said Brian, only half teasing.

She gave him a look. "Watch it, buddy, or I'll bust your nose again."

Brian chuckled a little as he straightened up from the table, prodding gently at his wounded nose. It wasn't bleeding anymore, but what had bled from it was only now starting to dry up around his nostrils. "You got a mean right hook for someone so small. Where'd you learn to hit like that?"

She got a vague smile as a memory of her mother's face came to the surface of her mind. Long as both her parents had been dead, her memories of them were still as fresh as the present. "My mom taught me."

He blinked at her in astonishment. "Your _mom_? Your mom taught you how to fight?"

Sonia nodded. "And how to use a variety of firearms and a little bit of the knife. Switchblade, mostly. My dad taught me the business."

"How old were you?"

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. "They started me out young, when I was eight. When I was ten, I had my first human kill."

Brian looked aghast, his mouth open and his brows furrowed. "Jesus, Sonia...no fucking wonder you turned out the way you did with parents like that."

She scowled at him. "They did what they thought was best for me, the same as their parents did for them. They grew up with the mafia, same as I did. It's all my family's known. They may not have been perfect parents or normal, or even good parents in some eyes, but I know they were just trying to prepare me for what was inevitable. I know they loved me and I fucking loved them, so don't you _ever_ bad mouth them again."

Brian put his hands up and backed off a few steps, should she throw another punch his way. "All right, Sonia. It wasn't my intention to get you worked up. One bloody nose is enough for one day." Seeing that she had no intention of attacking him again, he lowered his hands and changed the subject, "So, what're we going to do about our problem?"

She leaned her elbow on her knee and sat her chin in her hand as she tried to think of any more available options. Only one came to mind, but it was more like to get her killed than to solve their problem. "I suppose I could give it a shot, but I need to do it alone. You've pissed him off enough."

"Wha..." he started to ask, then realized what she was talking about. "But he hates you. What makes you think_ you _can talk him into it?"

She shrugged. "Nothing; I probably won't and I'll probably die, but I figure I'm probably going to die anyway, so what the fuck have I got to lose?"

"You're not going to die, Sonia. You can't honestly think I'm going to let him or anyone else kill you. If I do, my son's death was all in vain."

"If you think you can stop him, you're an idiot."

"He's _cuffed._"

"You can't keep him cuffed forever, Brian."

"You want to bet? If he doesn't calm his shit, he's going to be _buried_ in those fucking handcuffs."

She shook her head and slipped off the table, facing him. "I've still gotta try. I at least owe him an apology." She held her hand out to him. "Give me the key to the handcuffs."

Brian shook his head. "No. You're not going to commit _suicide_ on my watch."

She gave him a look of stern warning. "_Give it._"

"_No_."

"Do you want to avenge your dead son or not? This is the only way. And...look, I owe it to your kid to try, so let me try."

"You don't-"

She shook her open hand at him, staring him in the eyes. "_Let me try. _Let me do something _right_ for a change. Please."

Brian caved with a sigh. He fished around inside his jeans pocket and produced the key, letting it hover over Sonia's hand. "All right, but I'm going to be right outside. If I even sense that something's wrong, I'm coming in, gun blazing. This is really fucking stupid, Sonia." He shook his head and dropped the key in her hand.

She closed her fingers around it. "Yeah, well, I've done a lot of stupid things in my life. At least I'm doing this stupid thing for the right reasons."

Sonia turned and went back to the room. She took a deep, encouraging breath before she opened the door and stepped inside.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed, soaking the linen and dripping all over the carpet as he yet again fought with finding a way out those handcuffs.

She couldn't help a faint smile at his stubborn persistence, until he looked over at her with those dark, hate-filled eyes, then the smile was gone.

Sonia cleared her throat, grimacing as a painful burning sensation reminded her it was still raw and bruised. "Stand up and turn around."

"And give you a chance to stab me in the back?" he spat. "Fuck you."

She stepped over to him and dangled the key in his face. "So I can unlock those cuffs, but if you prefer being in them..."

The man narrowed his eyes, as if he were trying to decide if this was a trick or not. Then he grunted and stood from the bed, his frame rigid as stone. He refused to put his back to her, so she had to unlock the cuffs from his side. She didn't hesitate to turn the key, even knowing what would come when he was freed. It was a risk she was willing to take to earn back his trust.

The moment the metal cuffs fell off his wrists, he whirled on her, hands seeking and locking around her throat. She couldn't stifle a groan as pain speared through her neck.

"You broke my fucking heart," he growled at her as he squeezed her windpipe, fingers digging cruelly into the bruised skin of her neck.

Her eyes met his, the fury and pain inside them. Her hands clasped his arms, gently, as if she were handling thin, fragile glass. "I'm..._sorry_."

"And ain't that fucking _convenient," _he spat."You're _sorry_ when I literally hold your wretched life in my hands. Yeah, I bet you're fucking sorry _now_!"

"I was _before_."

Trevor didn't buy it. "Bullshit! You never gave a fuck about me; you never gave me a single thought when you took off!"

_It was _because_ I gave a fuck that I took off, _Sonia wanted to say, but she couldn't get that many words out around his strangling hands. So she forced out the only three words she could, the one's she thought had a chance of making him _see_.

"_I'm still here."_

The words didn't do what she wanted, but they at least did _something_. His face changed a little, confusion slipping in with the anger. But his hands remained locked painfully tight around her neck.

"_So fucking what!_?" His voice went high, almost shrill. "You think that makes up for taking off the way you did, for fucking blaming that on _me_?"

"No." Her hand finally moved from his arm and came up to grab his hand, pulling down on it. "Let me..._talk._"

"Oh, _now_ you wanna talk?" Trevor laughed without any hint of humor. "Well, its _way_ too fucking late for that."

"_Please_."

"Go ahead and beg, it ain't gonna do you any good! I'm not gonna listen to anymore of your fucking lies!" He shook her roughly by the neck, squeezing tighter, forcing a tortured sound out of her. "I'm fucking _sick_ of being lied to! I'm fucking _sick_ of being left behind! You don't get to fucking run out on me, then walk back in and _apologize_ like that makes it all okay! _You're gonna fucking_ _suffer_!"

And then Sonia felt tremendous pain as his hands yanked up on her neck, her feet nearly leaving the carpet. Her body reacted to that pain the only way it knew how. Her leg rocked forward, her shin connecting sharply with his crotch.

Instantly his hands were gone from her throat and Sonia fell back against the bed with a huge gasp, her throat screaming with pain as sweet, burning oxygen filled her lungs. Coughing, she rolled off the edge of the mattress onto the carpet, where Trevor had crumpled and was cursing viciously in between pained groans, a hand cupping his wounded genitals. She shoved him on his back, and he growled out and swung a fist at her in retaliation. Her forearm blocked the blow, her hand latched onto his wrist and wrenched his arm down. She pressed a knee down on it, pinning it to the carpet. When he tried to strike out at her with his free hand, she latched onto it too and pinned it down the same way. Finally, she sat her full weight upon his chest, knees pressing into his arms, hands planted down against his shoulders, black eyes boring into his.

She forced her voice despite the pain of talking. "Okay, you_ impossible_ fuck, if you wanna think I'm still here just to feed you a bunch of lies, you go right ahead, but you aregonna fucking _listen_ to me."

He bared his teeth at her in a snarl. "Fuck y-"

She clamped her hand down over his mouth. "No, I didn't give you a single thought when I ran off, I didn't think about how that was going to affect you, but that doesn't mean I didn't give a fuck about you. I did—I _do_—and that terrified me. Maybe that's a stupid thing to be afraid of, considering the shit you're capable of doing, but for me...that's the worst thing you could've done. And blaming you for how I felt was stupid too. I just..." She paused to swallow the lump knotting in her aching throat. "I couldn't wrap my head around that feeling. You were right before, about the walls, me keeping everyone out, but I was locked up so tight I wouldn't even let myself feel anything."

Her hand left his mouth as the words poured out of hers. They weren't what she had originally planned to say and she didn't know where they were coming from, but she knew they were right, that she was tapping into the deepest possible truth, discovering it just as he was.

"It was just better that way, you know?" she went on. "When you don't give a fuck, you don't have anything to lose. I wanted it that way, because I know what it's like to lose everything that matters and I _never_ wanted to experience that again. But you wouldn't fucking _quit_. You broke down those walls like it was _nothing_. That shouldn't have been possible and I fucking _hated_ you for it. And when that grenade went off, I thought you were dead and I just _couldn't _anymore." She shook her head. "It was one thing after another; feeling a way I've never felt before, being just so fucking confused about it, thinking you were dead and the way _that_ made me feel, realizing you were changing me. It was too much. So I ran from it. And I'm _sorry _I ran, I'm _sorry_ I hurt you. I didn't want that, but I wasn't thinking. I was just fucking scared. I'm _still_ fucking scared."

For several moments, Trevor said nothing, merely searched her with his eyes for any outward-showing deceit and running her words through his internal bullshit detector. In the end, he could only judge that it might or might not be the truth, a fifty-fifty shot of going either way. He didn't know what to believe; he didn't know shit anymore.

"You're so fucking scared, then why the fuck are you here, why ain't you half way across the country?" he asked.

"I wanted to fix things with you, I owe it to Brian and Brian's murdered kid, and I wanna make those fuckers _pay_ for what they did. And maybe I don't wanna be like this anymore, this person."

"Who the fuck would? You're horrible, worse than horrible. Never thought I'd ever meet someone worse than me."

She fought off an urge to roll her eyes at him. "So, are we good or not?"

He didn't answer. "Get the fuck off me."

"Are you gonna _attack _me again?"

Trevor gave her one of his nasty, nasty grins. "Maybe, maybe not."

She crossed her arms over her chest. "So, that's how you're gonna get back at me? Leave me guessing as to whether you've forgiven me or you're planning my demise? Constantly having me look over my shoulder, living in mortal fear?"

He didn't answer. "I _ain't_ gonna say it a third time. _Get the fuck off._"

Sighing, Sonia moved off of his chest and got to her feet, palming down the dirty skirt of her dress. She really needed a change of clothes. "Listen, Trevor, you should really consider Brian's plan. He can get you Brice."

"After he fucking threatened me?" he bristled as he rose to his feet with the aid of the bed. "_Fuck_ him! I'll find that motherfucker myself! And you wanna explain to me why you told him all that shit about me? Are you that much of a fucking moron or were you _hoping_ to get me thrown in the can?"

"I told him because he needed to know the situation and I trusted him. His threat wasn't a true threat, you know. It was a bluff. He can't risk telling his superiors about your criminal activity without risking us telling them about his. He's out here to commit _murder,_ Trevor, and he knows what they do to feds in prison."

He aimed a threatening finger at her. "You better fucking_ hope_ that's true, 'cause if I go down, you're going down with me." And with that, he made off for the door.

Frowning, Sonia started after him. "Where are you going?"

"Out. I need to hit the pipe and masturbate, or masturbate and hit the pipe. Either fucking way, they help me fucking _think_." He stopped at the door and turned back, scowling at her. "And just so we're clear, I _don't_ fucking forgive you."

She looked away, down at the carpet. "Will you ever?"

He didn't provide an answer, unless it was in the sound of the door slamming behind him.

* * *

The chatter of voices faded in and out as his consciousness did, nothing more than unintelligible static. It might have been two voices or three or a dozen, for all he knew. When those brief moments of consciousness came, his eyes were too heavy to open and he felt pain in his stomach, though it wasn't half as terrible as it had been riding in Sergio's Sentinel. Now it was just a dull, pulsing ache. His head felt strange, muddled. Thoughts tried to form, but were instantly lost in the fog shrouding his mind.

He slept.

He woke.

He slept again.

Sometimes he dreamed, sometimes he didn't. The dreams were nightmares; his brother dying at Philips' hands in some gruesome, unspeakable manner, a result of his failure to protect him, or it was both of them dying at the man's hands, while that woman looked on and laughed at them, at his utter stupidity. It was more soothing when he didn't dream, when he was surrounded by the deep, dark black of nothingness.

He woke again.

This time his mind seemed clearer, the voices around him more intelligible, but the pain was stronger, a deeper, penetrating throb in his lower abdomen. He was aware of his supine position, the feel of cushion beneath him, the heat surrounding him.

_Open your eyes_, he commanded himself.

The lids still felt heavy, like stones were weighing them down. They fluttered as he tried to wrench them open, unsuccessfully.

"He's waking up again," said a voice close by. Male, unfamiliar.

"Keep him conscious this time," another voice demanded. Male, familiar. It sounded like Paul Pierno.

"I can't _control _his consciousness," the other voice complained.

"Try, if you know what's good for you."

Brice tried to open his eyes again and found success this time. His vision was hazy, but he could make out two blurry shapes hovering at his right and left. When his eyes began to focus, he recognized those shapes as Paul Pierno standing at his left and Mason, the Devil's Sons prospect, standing at his right. He looked around his environment and found himself in an unfamiliar room. There was a naked window behind Mason, where warm sunlight poured into the room and over the bed Brice lay in. He wondered what time it was, how long he'd been out.

"You almost died," Paul informed him, his voice cold. "You have Mason here to thank for your life."

Brice remembered Mason from the botched kidnapping of Philips' meth cook. He remembered the younger man saying his sister was a doctor. Apparently, he'd picked up a few things from her.

He opened his lips to give his thanks, but found his mouth and throat too dry and his tongue too thick for speech.

Mason seemed to realize this and reached over to a table near the bed, grabbing the glass of water that sat there. There was a straw in it. Mason positioned it against Brice's dry, chapped lips and he sucked through it. The water was tepid, but still felt refreshing to his cotton mouth. He took another drink and then another, greedily slurping water from the straw until Mason pulled it away.

"You don't want too much too soon," he cautioned, setting the glass aside.

Brice cleared his throat and tried to speak. "Thanks." His voice was as weak as he felt, a low, raspy whisper. "For the water n' savin' my ass."

Mason only nodded and moved off out of Brice's field of vision.

Paul remained, his dark eyes studying him as one might study an insect. God, Brice hated him and his arrogant, domineering demeanor. What had made him think partnering with this snooty little prick had ever been a good idea?

"You'll be happy to know part of your plan worked," the mafioso said. "Philips' business is no more."

Brice closed his eyes, smiling, heart fluttering. _Yes._

"However," Paul continued. "Clyde and his bikers failed, as did Vigliotti. I sent some of my men to Cape Catfish and they found all their bodies. Philips and Marinelli were not among them."

Brice's eyes snapped open, an angry storm gathering in their blue depths. "_What_? They're _alive_?"

Paul shrugged. "One or both of them could have been injured in the ensuing gunfight, but considering how those bikers were massacred, I'm inclined to believe those two came out of it unharmed. I had a man set up a secondary measure for just this scenario. He wired Philips' trailer with a pound of your C4. Should he return home, he'll no longer be a problem."

Brice wasn't sure he would, but he was only basing that off what he himself would do in Trevor's position.

"You're going to lay low for a while," Paul told him.

Brice frowned. "Why? I don't need to. We both know he'll come after me, so let him. It's just him and that bitch; what're they gonna do against all your men and the Devil's Sons LV chapter? They're outnumbered."

"And if you recall, they were outnumbered at Cape Catfish and were still capable of slaughtering all of the Devil's Sons patched members. All that's left of the mother charter now is prospects. You are underestimating them."

"No, it's a well known fact that the army with the higher numbers has the greater chance of winnin' the battle. Cape Catfish was a fluke, or maybe they figured out they were gonna be ambushed."

"You knew what strategy would win Philips' territory, and they knew what strategy would win out over your ambush. What else do they know? Because that's what it comes down to, Brice. Not the numbers, but how well you know your enemy. How long have you known Sonia?"

Brice frowned, confused by the question. "What difference does that make?"

"Because she seems to know you real well, well enough to know your weakness."

"What the fuck are you talkin' about?"

"Your brother. He was arrested an hour ago."

Brice's eyes popped wide. He tried to lever himself up in the bed, but his limbs were too weak to hold him up. "What!? How!? How the fuck did this happen!?"

"He called me from jail, said they arrested him while he was out having a drink at a bar with someone named Alice. He's being charged with multiple counts of murder and an act of terror. It seems some deputies and citizens of Sandy Shores were slaughtered in the streets and at a nearby airfield not long after we blew up Philips' meth kitchen. The deputies have connected the murders and the bombing together, and believe it was planned. If your brother is convicted, he'll get the death penalty."

Brice felt like he was in another nightmare, only this one was real and he couldn't escape from it. He found strength from his anger and the love of his only sibling to push himself up. "No...no! _Fuck_!" He wrenched aside the bed sheet, and as he tried to stand from the mattress, Paul gabbed his shoulder to halt him. He swiped the man's hand off. "Don't fuckin' touch me! Don't get in my fuckin' way!"

But Paul did exactly that, coming around the bed to stand in front of him. "There's nothing you can do about it."

"The _fuck_ there ain't!" Brice raved. "I'll kill every last fuckin' deputy in that station if that's what it takes to get him out! Fuck! That's my _brother_!"

Paul grabbed his shoulder again. "Listen to me. You can't do shit in your condition, and I need you to focus on turning your gear, Brice. I will do what I can to get your brother out of jail, you have my word."

"And I'm supposed to trust you're fuckin' word!?"

"Yes, because I already know how to get him out, and you just said it yourself."

"Killin' them?"

Paul nodded. "The station isn't big and their force has been whittled down by whoever murdered those deputies on the street. Killing them won't be a problem, probably won't even take half my men. They'll go in incognito, mow everyone down, and get your brother out. They'll plant some of the C4 you have left and destroy the place and any evidence they were ever there. Your brother won't be off the hook, as I'm sure they logged his arrest into their network, but at least he'll be free."

Brice had to ask, since the guy had always come off as an asshole. "Why would you do this for me?"

"I have younger brothers, too; I know how important family is." Paul gave him a reptilian grin. "Besides, I'll be doing you a favor, which means you'll be in my debt. Sometimes it is like the movies."

Brice scoffed. "Fine. This is my brother, I'll take any debt if it means gettin' him out. How did this even fuckin' happen? How did those deputies connect the murders and the bombin' to Rick? It don't make sense."

"It's Sonia's doing, has her written all over it. When she was an enforcer for the Lupo family, she had half the LVPD, including the chief and the commissioner, in the family's pocket. My guess is she made a 'friend' in the Sheriff's Department here, and blackmailed him or her into placing the blame on your brother, or perhaps both of you; she's done similar before. That's why I want you laying low for now, to avoid you sharing a cell with your brother."

Brice curled a hand into a tight fist. "I'm gonna kill that fuckin' cunt. _I'm gonna hack off her fuckin' head_!"

"No, you're not. She's not yours to kill, but she _will_ pay for all of her crimes. You have my word on that too, Brice. Her days are numbered."


	19. Chapter 18: Wanted

**A/N:** Just a heads up for those of you who may be in mourning or are disgusted and outraged by recent events, this chapter contains violence against and the deaths of law officers.

Am I the only one who thinks America is going down the crapper quicker than diarrhea? Cops murdering African Americans, lunatics killing cops, and to top it all off, Donald Trump for president? I'm still half expecting to him to go, "Ha! Just kidding!" and then he pulls off his face to reveal he's actually an alien. Or he finally confesses to wearing a toupee. I mean, come on, that's _gotta _be a toupee.

Anyway, thanks for the reviews, y'all! Honestly didn't think many people would like this story.

* * *

**Chapter Eighteen:**** Wanted**

* * *

"It's been a day and a half, Sonia."

She sighed as she gripped her knife and poked disinterestedly at the half-eaten steak growing cold on her plate. Brian sat across the table from her in the worn, red leather booth, watching her as he sipped his black coffee.

He didn't need to keep reminding her of how long Trevor had been gone, and yet it was the third time he'd mentioned it since they'd sat down at the table.

"I _know_, Brian, but he needs to figure shit out on his own. Be patient."

"He's not coming back."

She pressed her lips together, frowning. "You don't know that." But she didn't know that he would come back, either. She was simply holding out, hoping the man would decide that he needed their help after all, as much as they needed his. She hoped he would come around, realize that she was trying to make up for her errors, that she was still _there _despite her own fears. Why couldn't the idiot see that?

"And you don't know that he will," Brian said as he sat his coffee cup aside and shifted on the booth, leaning forward and folding his arms in front of him on the table. "We can't keep waiting around."

She followed his posture. "Does it really matter? You can't make any moves without him."

"I have to try. Since I don't have to worry about finding Murphy for him now, I can travel with you to Las Venturas to get Joe Pierno."

They both spoke in low, whispering tones. Most of the other patrons in the Bayview Diner were sitting across the room at the counter, paying them no mind, but they weren't taking the chance of someone picking up on their conversation.

"And what happens if you lose track of Paul while you're trying to get his father? We're both _fucked_. We need people, Brian; extra hands, extra guns, or this ain't gonna work."

Signs of frustration found their way onto Brian's face, creasing his brow and tightening his mouth. "_We have to try._"

Sonia sighed and sat back in the booth, taking her bottle of Stronzo beer with her. She took a swallow of the Italian import as she looked outside the window to her right, at the cars passing through the slick street, headlights beaming through the light sheet of rain that fell. The gloomy weather fit the mood she'd been in over the last day and half. It had been raining almost nonstop, mostly light with a few intermittent storms.

A car pulled into the motel parking lot and a couple got out, jogging to the shelter of the porch outside their room, where they came together and shared a kiss.

Sonia frowned and looked away to gaze at the man sitting across the table from her. He wasn't wrong in what he'd said. They _did_ have to try. If they didn't, Joe Pierno would get away with having Brian's son murdered and the family would never stop coming after her. She would have to relocate again, leave the lower forty-eight states or perhaps even the country.

She may have wanted to leave not long ago, but things were different now. She wanted to help Trevor get his vengeance, and she wanted his forgiveness. And maybe she wanted him too, she wasn't entirely sure yet. All she knew was she missed him and the way things used to be; she missed the way he made her laugh, the way he laughed and those stupid shit-eating grins he got sometimes; she missed his ugly face, his dumb jokes, his childish attempts to get a rise out of her, even his careless nature, which always got them into trouble some way or another. Most of all, she missed that brutal honesty. Brian, who she'd been able to trust more than anyone, hadn't even been half as honest with her as Trevor had been. Whether the man was excessively blunt by nature or if he only did it just to be a jerk, Sonia still wasn't completely certain, but it was that honesty that had forced her to look at herself, to face the ugly, broken places she had preferred to think didn't exist. In that way, intentional or not, he had helped her understand herself.

But she knew Brian was right. The man wasn't coming back. Even if he did, it wouldn't be because he'd forgiven her and needed their help.

Sonia drank the last of her beer and sat the green bottle down on the table. "How're we going to get to Las Venturas? Can't go by plane, since we obviously won't be able to get all your guns past airport security. Won't get them past cargo checks at the dock, so we can't go by ship either."

"We'll go by plane. I'll just buy more guns when we get out there."

"And what about Joe? How're we going to bring him back here? He ain't gonna come peacefully, so we won't be able to get him on a plane without arousing suspicion."

"I haven't figured out that part of the plan yet."

"You could pose as a marshal transporting a criminal," Sonia suggested.

Brian shook his head. "It won't work. How we transport criminals isn't much different from how we transport protected witnesses. You know first hand how much preparation goes into that, and we have no chance of making any of it look authentic. Most of the arrangements have to go through the proper channels, and I don't even have basic credentials."

Sonia rested her chin in her hand, thinking of another possible solution. "We could heavily sedate him, stuff him in a crate, and..." She paused, shook her head. "No, that won't work...ooh! I got it. A _coffin_."

Brian blinked at her. "_What_?"

"Yeah, drill a few discreet breathing holes into it, sedate him and stuff him inside. When it goes through the procedural X-ray scan at the airport, security ain't gonna think twice about seeing a body in a coffin."

Brian shook his head at her. "Only you could come up with something that morbid."

"Morbid or not, it'll work_._"

"_Maybe_. We have to hope he stays sedated through the scan, the entire flight back, and then the scan at LSX."

"They'll scan cargo that's already been scanned once?"

"Airport security is real tight nowadays. And if it even remotely looks suspicious to them, they'll do a manual inspection."

"Would they get that suspicious of a 'corpse' in a coffin?"

"Only if the corpse starts moving and yelling."

"I know where we can get some pretty powerful sedatives. I mean _powerful, _like the shit they give you at the hospital. I tried it a few times. Knocked me out for hours."

Brian nodded. "Okay, then that only leaves the coffin, which is going to cost a fucking arm and leg. Unless you know a coffin guy too?"

She smiled grimly and shook her head. "There wasn't much need for coffins in my line of work. Just a good, sharp cleaver and a lot of dumpsters."

"Nice," he scoffed as he scooched out of the booth. "Let's go, we got a plane to catch."

Sonia stood from the booth as Brian brought his wallet out of his pocket and threw a twenty dollar tip on the table. "I need to take care of a few things before we go. I need to make sure Ruth is going to have enough to eat while we're gone, and I _really_ need a shower and a change of clothes."

Brian looked her over and nodded. "You should probably do something with your hair while you're at it. Cut it and dye it to change your appearance some. We'll have a better chance if you're not recognized on the spot, because we're going to have to go stealth to nab Joe."

Sonia fingered a few strands of her dark brown locks, looking utterly appalled at the idea. "My _hair? _Fuck off! I'll cut it, but I ain't dying it. It's natural for a _reason._"

"It's only for a few days," he said, waving off her outrage as they both headed for the exit. "When we get back, you can have the dye stripped."

"_Stripped_," Sonia breathed in horror. "Do you have any _idea_ what dye stripping does to your hair? Of course you don't, otherwise you wouldn't have suggested it."

"Stop overreacting, you vain thing."

"Overreacting...vain..." she grumbled. "I don't love a lot of things about myself, but what I do love is my hair. Would you change and then destroy something you love?"

He rolled his eyes. "Fine. Buy a wig, then."

"Well, at least now you're talking _sense_."

* * *

They were able to get Sonia a change of clothes and Ruth's groceries in Paleto Bay, but the wig would have to wait until they were ready to head down to Los Santos, since there was not a single shop north of the city that catered to the people's need for false hair.

By the time they got back to the motel with the groceries, it was a little past seven in the evening and the light rain had turned into a heavy downpour.

As Brian pulled into the parking lot, Sonia noticed a familiar red truck with a familiar license plate parked outside room eight.

"He came back?" She didn't know how to feel about that. She hoped it was a good thing, but her gut told her it wasn't. The man had made it clear he had no intention of forgiving her offense. He'd probably come back to finish her off.

"What?" Brian asked, giving her a sidelong glance.

"Trevor." She pointed out the lobster-red vehicle. "That's his truck. He came back."

Brian frowned as he parked in a vacant space, killing the engine. "Why?"

"I don't know."

"Let's find out," Brian said as he pushed the car door open.

Sonia touched his arm to halt him. "No." She didn't want him to get involved anymore than he already was. It was bad enough her cowardly mistakes had gotten his son killed, she wasn't going to let them get him killed too. "Let _me_ find out. Take Ruth her groceries, see how she's doing."

Brian shook his head. "I'm not letting you go in there alone."

"Yes, you are. Shit's gonna get resolved one way or another, Brian, and this between me and him. For your own good, stay out of it. _Please_. You can't avenge your son if you're dead, and he _will_ kill you if you get in his way."

"He'll kill you too, Sonia."

"Maybe he will, but I don't have anyone expecting me to come home and I know what it's like when a police officer comes to the door to tell you someone you love is dead. Don't do that to your daughter."

She pulled on the door handle to get out.

Brian grabbed the back off her dress. "Are you sure about this?"

She looked at him, but didn't answer. She didn't need to. Brian must've seen it on her face, as he let go of her.

"Why? Of all the goddamn people you could give a shit about, why this one?" he asked.

"I don't know. I just do." She smiled and reached out, giving his cheek a firm pat. "I give a shit about you too, Brian. You're decent for a fucking fed; you've always been good to me."

With that, Sonia exited the Emperor, Brian following suit.

As she headed through the rain for the motel room, the man called after her, "I hope you know what the hell you're doing!"

Sonia whirled and walked backwards, smirking at him. "Don't I always?"

They both laughed at that; they both knew it was a crock of shit.

As Brian retrieved Ruth's groceries from the back seat of the car and made off for her room, Sonia turned back around and abruptly paused in her stride when she noticed a smeared trail of fresh blood extending across the wood floor of the porch to the door of room eight. As Sonia stepped under the porch roof, she saw a half-smudged, bloody hand print on the door frame and more red blotting the brass knob.

It seemed another unfortunate individual had fallen prey to Trevor's wrath. That was the more likely case. As long as she'd known the man, she'd never seen him physically injured, at least not serious enough for the amount of blood she was looking at.

Sonia used the skirt of her dress to avoid soiling her hand as she turned the door knob.

As expected, she found Trevor inside.

Soaked from head to foot in rainwater, the man paced the room on unsteady legs and muttered obscenities to himself, the heel of one bloody palm pressed against his forehead as if he were trying to work out a stitch of pain there. His swaying strides and an empty whiskey bottle laying on the floor by the bed confirmed Sonia's first thought. He was drunk. And more than likely hopped up on meth; he had mentioned hitting the pipe before he'd stormed off a day and a half ago.

Not to her surprise, a dead body lay sprawled out on the carpet and a bloody knife lay near the deceased man's left leg. A pool and droplets of blood had soaked into the carpet fibers around the corpse. Sonia stopped counting the man's wounds after fifteen. His throat had also been cut from one ear to the other, likely inflicted after the other injuries.

Trevor stopped pacing only long enough to see who'd entered the room, then he was back at it again, staggering back and forth in the space between the bed and the TV stand.

"He's dead," he slurred, though it seemed more to himself than to her. "Gotta be...gotta be dead."

"Uh...yeah," Sonia replied, staring down at the corpse. "That tends to happen when you stab someone countless times and cut their throat open."

He paused to squint at her. "_What_?" Then he followed her gaze to the deceased man on the carpet and shook his head, scoffing. "No! I ain't fuckin' talkin' about him!" He pointed accusingly at the dead man. "Fuck_ him_! Prick had it comin'!"

"Okay, Trevor."

The inebriated and agitated man advanced on her, stumbling over the body and barely catching his balance. He delivered an unsteady kick to the dead man's ribs, as if he thought the body had intentionally tripped him up, then he faced the woman. "Don't fuckin' 'okay' me! Don't try to calm me down...don't...fuckin' _placate_ me! Jesus Christ, who the fuck _are _you!? I don't even know you anymore!"

Sonia stood her ground, frowning at him. She wondered how the hell he'd been able to kill the man on the floor in his condition, unless the man had been drunk as well.

"And stop...stop fuckin' lookin' at me like that!" Trevor continued to rave, turning away as if he couldn't stand to look at her anymore, hands twitching into fists at his sides.

"Like what?" she asked, watching him. Though it was obvious by the shouting that he was angry, she'd seen no trace of it on his face or in his eyes. All she saw was the pain, brought fully to the surface by the power of heavy liquor. A pain she knew too well, the agony of losing everything. She wished she knew how to ease it; she wished he would let her try.

"You know...don't act like you don't _know!_ Like I'm a fuckin' monster! The worst kind of...fuckin' monster!"

Sonia's face twisted in confusion._ Where the hell is all this coming from? _"You _are _a monster. You know it and I know it, but you're not the worst. Not to me, anyway."

"Bullshit," he spat, appearing strangely sober all of a sudden, though his speech still slurred. "You gave me that same...same fuckin' look, back there...at the airfield. Same one you're givin' me now. You think I don't know what it is? I see that fuckin' look a hundred times a day!"

"I'm not looking at you any way, Trevor." She stepped further into the room and sat down on the edge of the bed. "I'm just looking at you."

He didn't seem to hear her. "You think you're fuckin' better than me...too _good_ for me!?"

"No."

"Then _what,_ huh!?" His every motion was becoming increasingly erratic. He was escalating. "Why that fuckin' look, why _now_? You expect it to make me feel guilty? You fuckin' _deserved_ it! Everything! You're just...you're fuckin' lucky that fuckin' fed _'friend' _of yours was there to stop me!"

"Is that why you came back?" she asked. "To finish the job?"

"Maybe I did!"

Sonia spread her arms out, wearing her trademark Buddhist Monk mask. "Well, here I am."

The man tensed up, narrowing his eyes at her pushing him, challenging him, even now. The fingers of his right hand twitched at his side. His face distorted through myriad emotions, dark, mad eyes darting between hers. He would _never_ fucking understand her. Did she think he wouldn't do it?

Fuck her.

Fumbling around at the waist of his blood-stained jeans, he worked out a pistol and leveled it at her forehead.

Sonia knew it would come to this; she'd come to the conclusion the moment she'd seen his truck in the parking lot. _Shit's gonna get resolved one way or another_, that's what she'd told Brian. And here it was, resolving.

She felt strangely calm in spite of the circumstances. "I would suggest using your hands or that knife on the floor. Quieter. You'll be gone before Brian even notices something's wrong."

"You think I'm worried about _him_?" He scoffed. "_Please._"

"If he hears a gunshot, he'll come, he'll be armed, and he'll trap you in this room."

"Then I'll fucking go _through _him."

"Maybe you will, maybe you won't." She shrugged. "It was just a suggestion."

Trevor stepped closer, standing in front of her now, gun still aimed between those dark, abyssal eyes he loved.

No, not loved; maybe once, but not anymore and never again. He hated those eyes, and he hated her.

So what if she was still here? That didn't mean shit. She would just run off again; she would find another reason to, some coward's excuse. What the hell did it matter, anyway? He didn't need her to stay, he didn't need anyone. She was nothing to him, nothing but a set of holes he'd intended to fuck.

His forefinger tensed on the trigger.

She didn't look away from him as he half expected her to do. Her eyes stayed on his, and not even in her last moments of life did she show him an ounce of fear, a break in spirit. And he hated that he loved it, that there was _still_ something to love. He hated how she was fucking with his head, making him think, when he should've been taking action. This wasn't him.

It shouldn't be this complicated to end someone who'd wronged him. It wasn't right. _None_ of this was fucking right.

He gritted his teeth and some uncontrollable sound emitted from the back of his throat, but it was smothered by the loud crack of his gun.

* * *

Rick Murphy sat on the steel bunk inside his cell, trying to ignore the hostile looks and the threats and taunts coming from the man in the cell next to his. Iron bars separated them, and the big guy on the other side leaned against them on his elbows, hands dangling between the open spaces in the bars. He was an ugly bastard, with his deep set eyes, protruding, caveman brow, and hideous scar that fissured his left cheek.

"Ya got a pretty mouth, boy," the man sneered. "Pretty mouth for suckin' cock. Bet you're good at suckin' cock, ain't'cha, boy?"

Rick didn't know how the fuck he'd gotten into this mess. One moment he was sitting with Alice at a bar, having a good time over drinks and conversation. The next, two deputies were arresting him for multiple murders and an act of terror. It had happened so suddenly that his head was spinning, even now.

He'd never killed anyone, not even in the old days, when his brother reigned over Blaine County. But to be charged with multiple counts of murder and a fucking _act of terror_? Why the fuck was this happening to him?

"You just wait, boy," his cell neighbor went on. "Just you wait till I get my hands on ya. I'm gonna fuck your tight little throat, watch ya choke on my cock."

A loud clang echoed throughout the room containing the cells and Rick looked up to see a deputy with a handlebar mustache standing outside the door of the man's cell, baton in hand.

"Pipe down in there!" the deputy commanded, glowering at the prisoner.

"What, you jealous?" the man provoked. "Y'want me to fuck your throat too, _Deputy Dick_?"

The officer ignored him as he came to stand in front of the door to Rick's cell. Contempt plastered the man's face as he glared through the bars at him. "You're gonna be transported down to the courthouse in Los Santos for arraignment in a couple hours, Murphy. Your defense counsel will be here soon."

Rick rose from his bunk and approached the bars. "I want another phone call. My brother-"

"You're fuckin' lucky you got _one_ phone call, you murderin' piece of shit," the deputy spat.

Rick grabbed hold of the warm iron bars, pressing his face close to them as he scowled at the deputy. "I didn't fuckin' murder anyone! I'm bein' set up!"

The deputy whacked his baton against the bars, making Rick recoil and back away. "Sure, you're _all_ fuckin' innocent and bein' framed! As if I haven't heard _that_ a million times! Shut the fuck up and sit the fuck down!"

"Fuck you, you beige pig!" Rick shot back. "Why don't you come in here and _make_ me!?"

The big man in the neighboring cell laughed loudly. "Ooooh, he got a pretty mouth _and_ a feisty side! I'm gonna have me a good ol' time with this one!"

The deputy pointed his baton threateningly at the man. "I told you to fuckin' _pipe down_, Elmer! I ain't gonna say it again! Next time I'm just gonna come in there and jam this baton up your ass!"

"Ya promise?" Elmer jeered, giving the deputy a loose grin. "Ya gonna stick it in deep, jerk my cock while you do it? Well, c'mon, baby, let's _get it on_!" He thrust his hips lewdly in the deputy's direction.

The fuming officer marched to the door of the man's cell. The moment he reached for the ring of keys on his utility belt, there came a sequence of explosive pops from somewhere inside the building, followed by frantic shouts.

"What in the name of God...?" the deputy breathed in alarm, then he dropped his baton and ran off down a corridor, reaching for the service pistol holstered at his hip.

Rick and the other prisoners listened as those thundering pops went on for some moments, and the frantic shouts turned into screams of pain.

"What the hell's goin' on out there?" one of the prisoners asked.

"Sounds like gunshots," someone answered.

A person appeared then from the corridor, dressed from head to foot in black, face hidden behind a ski mask. The gloved hands clutched at an assault rifle.

The mystery individual stepped into the room and tucked their weapon under an arm, then pulled a cellphone from a pocket, looking from it to Rick, then over their shoulder to shout down the hallway, "I got him! You got the keys!?"

The voice was male, unrecognizable to Rick.

Before he could say anything, another person, dressed the same as the other, appeared in the threshold to the room and tossed a set of keys to the guy standing in front of Rick's cell. He unlocked it, pulled it open and stepped inside, grabbing Rick by the arm.

"Let's go."

"Who are you people?" Rick asked as he was dragged from his cell. "Sure as fuck ain't the kinda defense counsel I was expectin'."

"Talk later."

"Hey! Hold on!" the big prisoner shouted after them, grabbing onto his cell bars. "Do me a solid and let me out!"

"Let me out too!" another prisoner added.

"Let us _all _out!" a third insisted.

"Yeah! C'mon, we're all on the same side!"

The black clad person ignored them as he ushered Rick into the hallway and released his arm. He pulled a semi-automatic pistol from the waist of his black pants and pushed it into Rick's hands. "Stick close, and if anything beige moves, shoot it."

Rick nodded dumbly, feeling like he was in some weird dream.

The three of them sprinted up the corridor, the big prisoner's shouts following in their wake, "Hey! Come back! Motherfuckers, _let me out_!"

As the trio skirted around a corner, Rick stumbled over the deputy with the handlebar mustache, who lay dead on the floor in a pool of blood, his chest riddled with bullet holes. He caught his balance on the wall and rushed forward to catch up with the two black clad guys as they turned another hallway corner.

The next corridor led them to the command center of the Sheriff's station, where several deputies were sprawled out on the floor, dead and resting in their own blood. Bullet holes dotted the white walls in erratic patterns and blood was spattered and smeared across one, where a dead deputy reclined, limp hand resting over the service pistol on his lap. A handful of desks and a few laptops had also been damaged from the gunfire. The reception desk near the front door had been spared for the most part, but the man behind it had not. He'd died in his chair, before he'd even had a chance to rise.

Three more black clad people stood waiting around the front door as their other two comrades joined them.

As Rick started over to them, something grabbed hold of his ankle. He let out a surprised noise and looked down to see a deputy, barely clinging to life, clinging to him. He pointed the pistol at him as the man clawed at his pant leg and coughed up a mouthful of blood, but he hesitated to squeeze the trigger. He didn't want to do it. He didn't kill people; that's not who he was. Besides, there really wasn't a point in doing it, was there? The man was already dying any-

A sudden thunderous bang startled him and shut down his thoughts. The deputy's head jerked with a sickening flourish of blood. Rick felt it spattered the legs of his pants, then someone grabbed his arm and yanked him away from the body.

"Move!" an irritated voice commanded as a hand shoved against his back.

Rick hurried after the other black clad people as they exited through the front door and came out into the station's miniscule parking lot, where a black Cavalcade awaited them. A man sat behind the steering wheel, dressed in a black suit, though his face was covered by a ski mask like the rest of them.

Someone opened the lift gate and two of the black clad people climbed into the rear-most section of the SUV.

"What the fuck's keeping Milena?" another one asked. Rick recognized that voice as belonging to the man who'd freed him from his cell.

As if on cue, a smaller, more curvy black clad person burst through the station door and declared with a woman's voice, "The C4 is set."

"Good. Let's get the fuck outta here before back up arrives."

The man who'd freed Rick opened one of the SUV's back doors and someone gave Rick another push from behind.

"Get in, Murphy. We ain't got all fucking day."

Rick slid into the back seat as the others piled into the vehicle with him. The woman among them, Milena, sat up front with the driver and pulled a cellphone from her pocket.

"Get us clear of the station," she told the driver.

The man put his foot down on the accelerator and the SUV took off up the dusty road.

It wasn't long before Rick heard the distant whooping of sirens, and someone from the rear announced, "Back up just arrived! We're gonna have company!"

"How many?" the man sitting at Rick's right asked.

"Four cruisers! You get that C4 off at the right moment, Lena, and we may only have to worry about one or two!"

The woman said nothing.

Rick watched her as she stared through the right-mounted mirror outside the SUV, then glanced down at the phone in her hand. She looked once more at the mirror, then thumbed a button on her cellphone.

A couple of hundred yards behind them, the Sheriff's station and conjoined Sandy Shores Medical Center exploded into a massive globe of fire, its energy strong enough to shake the Cavalcade. The driver lost control, tires screeching as he fought to get the big vehicle back on a straight course.

"Easy, Ray!" someone from the rear called.

"I _got_ it!" the driver barked back as he eased the SUV out of its fishtail.

Rick looked back over his shoulder to see the building burning and tons of flaming debris littering the road. The explosion had also taken out two of the Sheriff cruisers. One had been blown all the way onto East Joshua Road, where it lay burning on its side and causing a minor traffic jam. The other had flipped over onto the dirt divider, tires already melted off the rims. But two of the cruisers had survived the destruction and were closing in fast, emergency lights flashing and sirens wailing.

"Nice timing, Lena!" one of the men in the back laughed. "We are now down to two cruisers!"

"How about a little less of the commentary and a little more getting them off our ass?" the man beside Rick griped.

"Chill out! We got it handled!"

The driver took a left onto Panorama Drive and sped over the railroad tracks.

Rick continued to watch over his shoulder as the man in the back pulled a grenade from a black pouch hanging on his belt. His partner had his rifle up and ready, staring down its sights.

The man pulled the pin on the grenade, waited a second or two, then rolled it out of the back of the SUV. His timing had been perfect too. The moment the leading cruiser drove over it, it burst and flipped the car in an awesome, flaming somersault. The cruiser behind it wasn't able to stop in time and slammed into it as it crashed back down on the street.

"And we are _clear,_ ladies and gentlemen!" the grenade thrower declared with a smug, cheerful tone.

"Don't get cocky. We ain't clear yet," the man beside Rick said. He seemed to be the one leading these people, whoever the hell they were. Badasses, it seemed to Rick. "If those fucking cops survived crashing into that cruiser, they're gonna radio this car in. We need to stay off the roads."

"Got it," Ray, the driver, said. "Let's take the scenic route."

And with that, he maneuvered the Cavalcade off Panorama Drive and out into the desert at their right, picking up a bit of speed.

"Who the fuck are you people?" Rick asked for a second time.

"The ones who just saved your ass from Death Row," the leader said.

"Man, I ain't ungrateful or nothin', just curious as shit," Rick said. "That was fuckin' crazy back there!"

"Paul sent us," the man explained. "And I guess now would be a good time to tell you about your brother. He got shot."

Rick stared at him, his eyes wide and his expression alarmed. "_Shot!_? What the fuck!? How the fuck did he get shot!? He's okay, right? Where is he?"

"Relax. He's recovering and Paul's got him somewhere safe. Seems his date night didn't go as planned. That woman he was gonna meet for drinks? Turns out she's working for Philips. She's also a wanted woman in the mafia world; enforcer turned rat. When your brother went to that inn to meet her, Philips was there waiting for him. They probably had it planned to go down like that; get Brice there under false pretenses, unprepared and unarmed. Easy kill. Except he got away, thanks to one of Paul's enforcers."

"Except he got _shot_!"

The man shrugged. "Could've been worse. After that shit at the inn, Brice apparently had our enforcer lure Philips and that rat bitch to Cape Catfish, where he had the Devil's Sons waiting to ambush them. One of the bikers took your brother by boat to safety before it went down. The ambush went south, though. Our enforcer, Clyde and the rest, they're all dead."

Rick ran a hand through his short hair as he let that sink in. "_Fuck_. What about Philips and that woman?"

"Alive, as far as we know. On a better note, Philips don't got a business anymore. Everybody in this car with you took care of that the other night."

Rick shook his head. "Fuck, man, it ain't good that he's still breathin'."

"Paul's aware of that, but for the time being we're all sitting tight till he thinks of a way to deal with the problem. Your brother's gonna be laying low till then, and so are you. After what we just did to get you out, you're gonna be one of the most wanted men in the country."

Rick had not thought about that until now.

He swallowed to moisten his drying throat. _Fuck me._


	20. Chapter 19: Las Venturas

**Chapter Nineteen: Las Venturas**

* * *

Trevor glared at the pistol in his hand as if it were an old friend that had just betrayed him. He released a loud, outraged sound and flung the treacherous goddamn thing across the room. It struck the wall near the bathroom, leaving behind a groove as it tumbled to the carpet.

But it wasn't the gun that was treacherous, was it?

His hands came up to grip at his balding head as he began to walk furiously back and forth across the carpet, eyes darting over to the ragged hole in the wall above the bed, where a bullet was embedded.

The hole that should've been in her fucking forehead. The bullet that should have gone through her fucking brain, and left bits and pieces of it splattered across the wall.

No, not the gun. It was him; he'd betrayed himself. He'd missed at point blank range. On _purpose_.

"_What the fuck!?_"

Who the fuck _was_ he? Who had he been just then? Because he sure as hell wasn't himself. When someone wronged him, they payed for it. So why the _fuck_ wasn't he making her pay for it? Why was he letting her live? It wasn't because some pathetic part of him still had feelings for her. Right? It wasn't like that was enough to stop him. _Right?_

Oh, God, he was fucked. Utterly _fucked._

"It sucks, doesn't it?" Sonia spoke.

Trevor pulled his gaze away from the hole in the wall and stared at her. She still had that infuriatingly stoic look on her face, but there was a noticeable tremor in her voice. Was that from surprise? Relief? _Fear_?

He opened his mouth to ask what she'd meant, but the door to the room burst open and Marshal Shitbag invited himself in, gun in hand. He started to raise it in his direction, and Trevor cursed himself for throwing his gun across the room like an idiot.

Sonia lurched from the bed then, putting herself in front of him, facing the dick with the gun. "It's okay, Brian."

"Sonia, _move_," the man demanded.

"No. Everything's fine, just put the gun down."

"Everything's _not _fine. Are you really going to stand there and tell me he didn't just fucking shoot at you?"

"Doesn't matter, Brian. He had me at point blank range. If that bullet was meant to kill me, I'd be dead." She reached a placating hand out to him, as if he were some wild beast primed to attack. "_Put the fucking gun down_. Please."

Brian hesitated for a moment, staring between the two of them, then he blew out a sigh and lowered his pistol to his side, fitting it into its holster. "Okay. Okay, I give up. I'm not even going to try to understand what's going on. Just tell me you two have worked shit out."

Sonia looked over her shoulder at Trevor. "That's up to him."

She and the former fed waited, expectantly, as if he could just pluck out an answer from the disturbed, jumbled mess that was his mind, simple as that. He couldn't even comprehend what the hell was happening. He wasn't even sure he _wanted_ to comprehend what the hell was happening. The only thing he knew was he needed to do _something_, take action to make up for the action he _couldn't _take.

"Fuck it," Trevor declared, throwing his arms out at his sides. "Fuck it up its ass! It ain't important. The _only _thing that'_s_ important is finding and fucking _destroying_ those cocksucking _motherfuckers_ who took everything from me! If killing them means I have to team up with you two cunts, so fucking be it!"

And with those words, Trevor marched off for the door, shoving the former Marshal out of his way.

"Hold on!" Brian called after him. "We haven't even discussed the plan yet!"

Trevor swung back around, a stormy scowl on his face and lightning in his eyes. "What's there to fucking discuss? Me and little Miss _I Don't Understand My Feelings_ are gonna kidnap your mafia boss, and you, you're gonna fucking locate Murphy for me. Right? Fucking perfect. I could've pulled a better plan out my _ass_, but those cunts have gotten to stay on this earth _way _too long past their fucking expiration date." He marched up to the man, getting in his face, stabbing a finger at his chest. "And I think it goes without saying, you don't have that bastard fucking _gift wrapped _for me by the time we get back, I'm gonna shove my hand down your throat and _rip_ your _fucking_ guts out!"

Brian glared at him, his hand falling to the grip of his pistol. He opened his mouth, maybe to threaten him back, but Sonia grabbed his wrist and pulled him around to face her.

"The original plan, Brian. Remember?"

"Yeah...yeah, I remember. Okay."

"Let's fucking go!" Trevor shouted, already half way to his truck.

Sonia put a hand on Brian's shoulder and looked him in the eye, her expression grim. "Find him, Brian."

He nodded. "And you be careful. I don't know which is worse for you, being around him or going back to Las Venturas without a proper disguise."

"It won't be half as bad as what'll happen to you if you can't find Brice. Is your cellphone back in service?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Just wanna make sure I can contact you." She squeezed his shoulder, then started off for the Emperor. "I'll call you when we've got your man. Oh, and you might wanna do something about our, uh, 'guest', back in the room. You know, before someone notices him or he starts getting _ripe_."

"Yeah, _thanks, _Sonia!"

"Just saying!"

She retrieved the paper sack with her change of clothes from the back seat of the car, then got into the truck with infuriated Trevor.

* * *

To say things were awkward between them would've been an understatement.

They sat in sheer silence that was somehow louder than noise, the tension so thick you could've cut it with a knife, though most, if not all of it, radiated from Trevor.

Sonia was forced to endure the discomfort of it, shifting around uneasily in the passenger seat and wishing she hadn't left her cigarettes back at the motel.

Her leg brushed something in the footwell and she glanced down to see her purse still sitting where she'd last left it that night they'd killed those bikers at Cape Catfish.

_That night I fucked everything up._

She reached down and pulled the purple, leather bag into her lap. She found her cellphone inside, still turned off, along with her beloved switchblade and her credit card. This was good, convenient. Though she wouldn't have preferred using a credit card, it would definitely come in handy when they got to LV. They obviously weren't going to get any guns past airport security, so they would have to purchase them when they got there. And of course, they now had the means to buy the plane tickets.

Sonia put the handbag back in the footwell and peeked over at Trevor. He had this uncharacteristic, broody look on his countenance. She wished to God he would just fucking _say_ something; yell at her, insult her, threaten her. _Anything_ would've been better than this uncomfortable and unnatural silence.

"So, that was weird, right? Back there at the motel?" She eased into the subject with a casual, conversational tone, trying to make it seem less serious than it really was. "Completely did _not_ see that coming. I mean, honestly, I thought I was as good as dead, but-"

"_Shut the fuck up," _Trevor cut her off viciously, shooting her a black look.

Sonia frowned. "I think we should talk about it."

"I don't _care_ what you think, and there's _nothing_ to fucking talk about. So just fucking sit there and fucking _shut up_."

"So, you're just gonna pretend like nothing happened?" Which was just plain fucking weird for him. He was always up front and blunt about everything, and sure as hell wasn't afraid of confrontation. He must've been _really_ freaked out by what had happened if he was trying to avoid talking about it.

"_Pretend_? Oh, no, I'll leave the fucking pretending to _you_. I mean, that's your thing, right? From fucking day one you were doing it; _pretending_ to be someone you weren't, _lying_ to me about who you really were."

"And then I wasn't. You know you're the _only_ person who knows who I really am, what I did, why I even came to Sandy Shores? I _trusted_ you with that information when we were still basically strangers, _knowing_ you could use it against me. Don't ask me why, but I did..." She paused, realizing what she was doing. She was getting caught up in the argument, allowinghim to turn the tables on her. "That's ancient history, Trevor, and you know that's not the fucking issue here."

"Oh, it's _definitely_ the fucking issue. You haven't stopped doing it, you're _still_ fucking pretending."

Sonia made a confused face. "_What?_"

"Yeah. Only now you're pretending you're sticking around for me. I mean, it's a little fucking convenient. Your enemies find you, and bam, suddenly you give a fuck about me." He gave her a look of utter contempt. "_Real_ fucking convenient."

She still didn't understand what he was getting at. "What are you saying?"

"You're just fucking _using _me. Buttering me up, _pretending_ to care, so I'll help you kill off all your enemies."

Sonia gaped at the angry man. She couldn't _believe _him, him and his utter fucking stupidity. "That doesn't even make any fucking _sense_!"

"Oh, it makes _plenty_ of fucking sense!"

"No, it makes absolutely _zero_ sense!" Sonia spat. She wanted to grab him, slam his stupid fucking face into the steering wheel. "Jesus God, Trevor, you're a fucking _idiot_! I don't _need_ them killed for my sake. I can make one phone call and have myself relocated again to another shitty little town out in the middle of fucking nowhere, where they can't find me. Hell, the Marshals can relocate me in another _country_ if I asked them to. I don't fucking need _you_ to do _shit _for me, and I don't _have_ to fucking be here!"

Trevor opened his mouth, shut it, opened it again, struggling to find some kind of response. Well, _that _didn't pan out the way he had hoped. As much as he would've liked to refute her point, doing so would be futile and would only succeed at making him look stupider. It did _actually_ make sense, though he'd be damned if he admitted it out loud.

"But I _am_ still fucking here, because I _want_ to be!" she continued furiously. "Because _I_ wanna help _you, _because I want them to fucking pay for what they did to you, and I wanna help Brian-"

"Yeah, okay, you can shut the fuck up now," Trevor cut her off, irritated.

He may as well have not even spoken.

"-avenge his murdered son! I'm here because I fucking _care_ about you and I wanna fucking _be_ with you, even if you are the biggest_ moronic_ _fuck _I've ever met!"

Sonia snapped her mouth shut, swallowing, realizing with combined surprise and dismay what she had just admitted to. _She wanted to be with him._ Well, so much for her former uncertainty on the matter; it had just flown out the goddamn window.

Trevor stared at her with his mouth open, surprised. She wanted to _be_ with him?

There was that awkward silence again. Sonia was almost grateful for it, to have the whole conversation put to an end, as she felt more than a little mortified, but then...

"I love you," Trevor said suddenly, with this solemn expression she'd never seen on him before.

Sonia scowled at the man, in no mood for his weirdly amorous confessions. What the fuck was _wrong_ with him? He had hated her guts not five minutes ago. "Fuck you, Trevor."

"Lord knows I fucking _shouldn't_," he continued, as if she hadn't even said anything. "Not after all the total _shit _you've put me through-"

"The shit _I've_ put _you_ through? You've got some goddamn ner-

"And maybe I'm a fucking idiot, but..._fuck_, I love you."

She scoffed. "No, you don't."

That rare solemnity on his face morphed into a scathing look, peeved with her telling him what his own goddamn feelings were. She had some fucking nerve. "_Yes_, I fucking _do_. I coulda killed you back there, at that motel. We both fucking know it. Had you right in front of me, unarmed, no _possible_ way of defending yourself. It was an easy kill, or it should've been. But it..._wasn't. _I didn't..._want_ to. You think that fucking happens everyday, _not _wanting to kill someone who wronged me?"

"No, I guess not," Sonia grudgingly admitted, but she still wasn't entirely convinced he loved her. She reached over and grabbed the front of his shirt, pinning him with a threatening look. "And just so we understand each other, if you _ever_ pull a gun on me again, you are toast_, _pal, and I mean _toast_;I will butter you and eat you for fucking breakfast."

That didn't get the typical angry response she had hoped for.

Trevor gave a libidinous hum of approval, mouth twitching as if he were resisting a grin. "Is that a promise?"

"I'm not fucking kidding," she warned, releasing his shirt.

He nodded. "_Good_."

Some twenty minutes later, they passed the little farming community of Grapeseed, which spread out from the right side of the Senora Freeway. The truck slowed a bit as it approached an intersection, then pulled right onto East Joshua Road, heading back toward Sandy Shores.

Sonia frowned in confusion. Why weren't they heading for Los Santos International?

"Where are we going?" she asked with a belligerent tone, her exasperation with him not yet passed.

"Airfield."

"Why?"

"Why do you _think_? We wanna get to Venturas, don't we? Obviously, we ain't gonna fucking walk there."

"You know someone who can fly us there? Someone who ain't gonna say shit about the _kidnapped_ mafia boss we're gonna be bringing back with us?"

"Yeah. _Me_."

Sonia gave him a dubious look. "_You_? You know how to fly a plane?"

Trevor huffed in annoyance at having to repeat something he was _sure_ he'd said once before. "Planes, helicopters, anything, everything. Could've _sworn_ I mentioned that before."

She shrugged. Maybe he had, maybe he hadn't. Did he expect her to remember every little thing he'd told her?

As they drove past Sandy Shores, Sonia sat up a little in the seat and rose her brows when she noticed the town had undergone a rather surprising change since the last time she was there. "Hey...look. The Sheriff's station and the hospital are gone."

Where the conjoined buildings had once stood, there was now only a massive pile of blackened rubble, edged off with barricades and yellow crime scene tape. Two black Landstalkers were parked along the side of the road, and three men garbed in black suits stood between them, facing the destruction. They looked like FIB.

"_And_?" Trevor replied.

Sonia stared at him. "So, _this_ is what you were up to while you were gone?"

He looked offended by the accusation. "_No_, this wasn't what I was fucking up to while I was gone. I was getting high and jerking off and figuring shit out, _like I said_. And _maybe_ I tried to pin down that Murphy prick's location and didn't have any luck. I'm _completely_ innocent. This time."

"Really?"

Trevor narrowed his eyes at her dubious tone. "Is it so fucking hard to believe that I might _actually_ be innocent of one or two of the countless crimes that take place in this county?"

She just went on staring at him, face blank.

Trevor scowled. "The answer is _no. _Jesus Christ, whatever fucking happened to being given the benefit of the doubt?"

Sonia let the subject drop. She supposed he was telling the truth. After all, if he had done it, she suspected he would have no problem admitting to it. Knowing him, he would've boasted about it at length, as if he'd discovered the cure for cancer.

By the time they arrived at Sandy Shores Airfield, it was starting to rain again.

Trevor parked his truck outside the big, metal plane hangar and the pair exited the vehicle. Sonia glanced around the area as the man headed into the hangar, noting that the bodies he'd left behind had been removed, though she could still see the dark patches of dried blood around the hangar and at the start of the runway, where those unfortunates had died. It seemed the authorities had been the ones who'd removed them, as she noted a small length of crime scene tape stuck to the old trailer by the hangar, flapping lazily in the breeze.

"Shake a fucking leg, sunshine," Trevor called from inside the hangar.

Sonia turned around to see the man standing on the left wing of one rusty monstrosity of an airplane, and she couldn't help gaping at it with unmasked horror. "Call me weird, but I was hoping we'd get to Las Venturas in one piece. We'll be lucky if this thing even gets off the _ground_ intact."

"She may be a little worse for wear, but-"

"_A little worse for wear?_ Isn't this what the Wright brothers flew when they made aviation history?"

"-I've flown her to North Yankton and back. I think she'll make the fucking trip to LV. Now shut the hell up and get the hell _in_."

Sonia sighed and strode over to the right side of the plane. Perhaps she was worrying over nothing. His truck was just as worse for wear, but it ran fine. He seemed to have this weird thing for old, beaten up stuff that was surprisingly reliable.

She hadn't realized how cramped the cockpit would be until she was seated on the passenger side, rubbing shoulders with the man. She had never been good with small, enclosed spaces. It was going to be one long fucking trip.

After donning a headset, Trevor made a gesture that she should do the same. Sonia found an extra pair on the floor under her seat and pulled the bulky things on over her ears, then she watched as the man worked the confusing panel of buttons and levers and gauges set before him.

The aircraft made a few sputtering sounds as it came to life, the twin propellers outside beginning to spin up. Heavy vibrations shook the cockpit and made Sonia feel like she was sitting inside some huge, living beast. Then it was pulling out of the hangar and taxiing down the slick, dark runway.

Trevor brought the plane off the ground with ease and steadily gained altitude, circling around the airfield to set an easterly trajectory.

When the old plane suddenly gave a few alarming jumps, Sonia let out a strangled sound and gripped the edges of her seat, hoping to God they weren't about to drop out of the sky.

"What, you scared now?" the man said, a hint of amusement in his voice. "If I'd known this is what it took to terrify you, I woulda took you for a spin in this thing a long time ago."

"Bite me," Sonia spat, raising her chin. "I ain't scared."

"No, no, of course not, what am I thinking," Trevor snorted. "You _always_ look like you're gonna vomit. Just so you know, there ain't any barf bags on board, so if you're gonna lose your lunch, you better lose it outside this plane. No puking in _my_ cockpit."

"Color me surprised. You seem like the kind of weird guy who'd _enjoy_ a woman puking in your..._cockpit_."

He snapped his head around to stare at her with exaggerated shock. "Did I just hear you right? Was that a _sex joke_? Jesus Christ, you _are_ terrified."

"Maybe a little concerned," Sonia admitted. "I mean, I've never flown in a _hundred-year-old_ plane before with the pilot buzzed on drugs and alcohol. And I'm not particularly good with confined spaces."

Trevor scoffed. "Where the _fuck_ is your sense of adventure?"

"I left it at ground level."

Her anxiety began to fade, however, when the land gave way to the ocean and they finally outdistanced the storm over Blaine County. The blanket of night above them was decked with a billion little pinpoints of lights, and she realized she'd never been this close to the stars she so loved before. And as they often did, they calmed her with their soothing magic.

After some moments, she gazed over at the pilot and was struck by the look on his face. That perpetual sour expression he wore was gone, replaced by an abnormal but not unpleasant stillness. As long as she'd known him, she'd never seen so much as a _hint_ of peace in the man. She'd never thought it was _possible_. For that look to be there, she could only assume that he must love the fuck out of flying.

Sensing the stare, Trevor gave her an indirect glance and said, "Look, I know I'm irresistible, but stop fucking staring, alright? Creepin' me out."

"No, it's not that..." Except it kind of was, but damn if she was going to admit it and blow up his ego. He did that job well enough on his own. "I was just wondering, where'd you learn to fly?"

"Oh, you know. Air force."

"Yeah?" she replied, brows raised in surprise. "You never struck me as the military type."

"What type _did_ I strike you as?" Trevor asked, going on the defense.

"The type you are. Your own man; do what you want, say what you want, fuck everybody else."

"Okay..." He sounded disappointed, as if he'd _wanted _her to say something that would rub him the wrong way.

"Why the air force? I mean, couldn't you have just gone to flight school?"

He shrugged. "I could have, but civilian flight school wasn't gonna increase my chances of dropping any nukes on any unsuspecting villages."

Sonia couldn't say she was surprised. "Ah, well, that explains it. So, did you?"

"Drop a nuke? _No..._although there was this one time I swiped a military super weapon from a private militia with the sole intent of selling it off to some Chinese gangsters, but that's a story for another time. Anyway, unfortunately, my military career was..._short-lived_."

There was seething anger in his voice and it broke through that weirdly pleasant look on his face. Sonia almost regretted bringing up the subject now, but her curiosity wanted the whole story, so she pressed on. "What do you mean?"

"I _mean_ the judgmental twat in charge of psych evals decided I was too _'unstable'_ for duty and grounded me for life." He scowled at nothing in particular. "It was my calling—y'know, _the_ fucking calling, the thing you know you're _meant_ to do, what you were put on this earth for. Fucking crushed me."

Sonia reached over and put a comforting hand on his, squeezing and brushing her thumb across his tattooed knuckles. "I'm sorry."

Trevor broke the contact, frowning at her. "Knock that shit off. I don't want your fucking pity, alright?"

She took her hand back, feeling like an idiot.

They didn't speak for the rest of the trip.

* * *

In that hazy sphere of half-sleep, Sonia felt a hand on her shoulder, rudely shaking her around, and heard a familiar, impatient voice demanding she wake the fuck up.

She worked open her eyes and squinted at the daylight spilling in through the cockpit windows. She didn't know when she'd fallen asleep, but as she sat up in the seat, she saw that they had landed at some dusty, miniscule airfield that made the one near Sandy Shores look like a sprawling, metropolitan airport, and it was surrounded by a desert of molten gold.

Sonia looked to her left to see the pilot seat empty and the door left open. She popped open her own door and climbed out to stand on the plane's right wing, to fully take in the sight of the Venturas desert. It seemed to stretch on into forever, rolling up into golden dunes that were almost as tall as Mount Chiliad's baby peaks. Towards the west lay the site of the El Castillo Del Diablo landmark, which consisted of a menagerie of strange earthen formations, both great and small, and tall pillars of earth that rose from the sands like giant fingers. Due north, a massive dirty-beige cloud obscured the horizon, moving swiftly in the direction of the airfield. It was a sand storm, a rare occurrence. In all her years living in Las Venturas, she'd only seen one or two.

"Good call on the airfield," Sonia called to Trevor, who stood not far from the plane, tugging down the zipper of his jeans for a much needed bladder release. "Save us the trouble of dealing with the procedural bullshit at the airport. How'd you know it was here?"

"I make it my business to know things," was his vague response.

She shrugged and reached back into the cockpit for her handbag and the brown paper sack containing her change of clothes, then she closed the door and slipped down from the wing. By then, Trevor had finished his business and came around the aircraft, zipping himself up.

He clapped his hands together in an eager gesture and stared around the deserted airfield. "Alrighty, we're here, now we need a fucking car." He looked to her, expectantly. "_Well_?"

Sonia made a face. "Well _what_? You expect me to pull one out of my ass?"

Trevor blinked a couple of times, his face wearing a half-serious expression. "I'd be goddamned impressed if you did."

"Shut up," Sonia said with that same half-seriousness. She lifted a hand to shade her eyes from the sun and studied the area. "I've never been out this way before, but there's gotta be an access road somewhere. Hopefully we find it before _that_ gets here." She pointed off to the west, where that huge, billowing cloud of wind-blown sand grew steadily closer.

It didn't take them long to find the access road, which was nothing more than an unpaved, tire-trod path at the end of the sandy runway. It snaked through the desert for half a mile before it finally connected with a paved road. By the time they'd reached that, the monstrous cloud of sand had swallowed the airfield and the wind began to pick up a little.

Sonia was grateful for it, as it brought some relief from the stifling heat. As it was, her dirty black dress was absorbing it and clung uncomfortably against her sweating body.

"Hey, look, our ride just arrived!" Trevor announced, who was a few yards ahead of her, striding along the road's shoulder.

She looked up to see a lonely Perennial coming down the road toward them and hurried to catch up with the man. As the car got closer, Trevor jogged out into the middle of the street to flag it down.

Sonia didn't think it would stop, as there weren't many people willing to pick up hitchhikers in the middle of the desert, and particularly not ones that looked like Trevor. That's why she was surprised when it _did_ stop. The driver rolled down the window a crack as Trevor approached the door.

"You two need a ride?" the man asked him.

"How kind of you to offer," Trevor said with a faux friendly tone and matching smile as he reached for the door handle and yanked up on it. "C'mon, pork chop, _out_! You could use the fucking exercise._" _He had half a second to wonder why the door wasn't opening before the driver cursed at him and put the pedal to the metal.

Trevor staggered back from the station wagon as it sped away down the dusty road. He stared after it with utter outrage on his face, arms extended toward it. "Unbelievable! Fat fucker had the door locked! Who fucking _does_ that!?"

"Someone with sense," Sonia said helpfully. "And speaking of sense, you _could_ have refrained from trying to jack the car and accepted the man's offer instead."

"Yeah, I _could_ have, but we were gonna end up having to steal a fucking car anyway to get around town. Excuse _me_ for thinking ahead."

"Alright," she sighed as she started up the side of the road once again. "No point arguing about it."

"Yep," he agreed. "No point arguing when you've already _lost_."

It was about fifteen minutes before they saw another car again, and by then, that monster sand storm was upon them. The wind came first, blasting from the north with near hurricane force, howling like a furious ghost. And then that massive cloud of golden sand and dust swept in, whirling madly, so thick it blotted out the sunlight. Sonia couldn't even see ten feet in front of her, let alone the car that was coming. The only evidence that one was even on the road came from the rumble of the engine.

Trevor heard it too, and hurried out into the road again to get it to stop, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the blinding sand.

"Get outta the road!" Sonia called after him, sounding almost like a mother admonishing a misbehaving child. The man was just asking to get run over.

She saw a flash of headlights, then the front end of an SUV, speeding through the swirling sand right at the man. Sonia let out a startled noise and ran out into the road without really thinking, only fearing the SUV wasn't going to stop in time. She'd just grabbed the back of Trevor's shirt when she heard the shriek of tires. Her heart lurched against her chest; she was certain they were _both_ going to get hit. But the big, black SUV swerved around them, missing them by mere inches. It fishtailed on the sandy pavement and slid off the road, coming to a dead halt in a small ditch.

Sonia heaved out a great sigh of relief, then gave Trevor's back an angry shove. "Idiot! Are you _trying_ to get killed!?"

Before he could respond, there was a loud _thump_, like a door slamming shut, then a tall man appeared through the spinning sand, hand raised in front of his face.

"Are you two fucking insane," he shouted. "Standing out in the middle of the road during this shit!? I almost hit you!"

And then Trevor casually strode over and hit _him_. The man's head reared back from the vicious blow, then he crumpled to the pavement, unmoving.

The pair hurried over to the SUV and got in, quickly shutting the doors against the sand storm's fury. They found the vehicle's interior blessedly cool and some Michael Bolton song playing on the radio, which Trevor grimaced at and immediately turned off.

"Okay, _guide_, which way am I going?" he asked.

"Not sure," Sonia replied as she reached into her handbag and pulled out her cellphone, thumbing the little power button on the side of it. "Gimme a minute."

"You've lived here your whole life, and you're _not sure_?"

"Yeah; like I said, I've never been out this way."

When her phone came on, she accessed the GPS app and gave it a moment to pin down their location, then she typed _Las Venturas_ into the destination box and the directions immediately came up.

"Okay, go right and keep following this road for about ten miles. It'll meet up with Interstate 66, which'll take us directly into the city."

Trevor pulled the SUV onto the road and started back the way the driver had originally come from earlier. A moment later, he hunched over the steering wheel, squinting through the windshield, and grumbled, "Fuck, can't see shit."

"We can always pull over and wait it out," Sonia suggested. "Sand storms don't usually last long."

He of course ignored the suggestion and kept driving, picking up a careless rate of speed as if to prove to her or to Mother Nature that this was nothing he couldn't handle.

Sonia rolled her eyes. _Men._

Two miles later, the whirling sand began to disperse to reveal daylight and the long stretch of road. Civilization began to make an appearance as well, in the form of old, ramshackle gas stations and the occasional lonely rest stop, though most of them looked as deserted as the road they were on.

Sonia's mind wandered as she stared out the passenger window, and it stumbled on something Trevor had said earlier, back at the Bayview motel. He'd drunkenly muttered about someone being dead, and she now wondered who he'd been talking about.

"Who died?"

The man gave her a weird look, as if she'd just spoken to him in a foreign language. "Come again?"

"Back at the motel," Sonia clarified. "You said someone was dead. Who died?"

"Oh, yeah, right. That." Trevor snorted and shook his head as he focused back on the road. "Fucking Ron. Little bastard never answered his phone after I called about twenty times, and trust me, he _always_ answers, on the first fucking ring; he knows what'll happen if he doesn't. Gotta be dead, only makes sense. Was probably hanging around the cook site when it _blew up_."

"Shit."

He shrugged a shoulder. "Always figured _I'd_ be the one who eventually ended up killing him."

"He seemed like an okay guy, a bit on the nervous side."

"An _okay guy_? No, he seemed like what he was—a pathetic turd. But he was a _loyal_ pathetic turd, and Lord knows that's a rare quality in people."

"Well, at least you still got that other guy. What's his face. Wayne?"

"Wade?" He rolled his eyes. "_Wow_, some fucking consolation. That little cretinous fucker couldn't tell his ass from a hole in the ground even if you _showed_ him."

"Yet you still keep him around."

"Well, what can I say? I got a soft spot for dumb animals. He's like a pet dog; loyalty comes automatic and it takes very little to keep him happy. Just don't expect him to be of _any_ use if little Timmy falls down a well."

Sonia didn't buy his 'soft spot for dumb animals' excuse. "I guess surrounding yourself with idiots is better than being alone?"

Trevor gave that a moment's worth of consideration. "Maybe. I'll say this, Ron may have been a pathetic turd, but he was blessed with more intelligence than Wade and he was reliable. Hardly ever let me down, which is more than I can say for that fat reptile I've called 'best friend' for some twenty odd years."

"Aw, it sounds like you're gonna miss him," Sonia teased lightly.

"Go fuck yourself," Trevor retaliated, glowering at her. "Nobody said anything about missing anyone. Never even _implied _it."

She looked out the passenger window and shared a private smile with herself.

Up ahead, the road they were on finally joined with the interstate, and as Trevor gunned the SUV up the on ramp, Sonia could make out the distant sprawl of tall, clustered buildings that was Las Venturas.

After a twenty mile drive down the interstate, they passed by the famous, gaudy Las Venturas welcome sign, which rose tall from the median, and they were officially within city limits.

"There she is," Trevor said. "The quickie marriage and gambling capital of the world! Bet you thought you'd never come back here again."

"No, but despite the circumstances of _why_ I'm here, it kind of feels good to be home again."

"Right...so, uh, what's the plan? Where the fuck am I going?"

"I suspect it's gonna take us a few days to find and nab Joe Pierno, so probably best to establish a 'home base' first, right? I know this little inconspicuous motel on the south side of the city. Real cheap, trashy place. You'll probably love it."

"That depends. They got those vibrating beds?" Trevor asked.

"Yeah. Most of the cheap places do."

"And free hardcore porn?"

She quirked a brow. "Yeah..."

"Then yeah, you're right, I'll probably love it."

Sonia gave him the directions to the place, and it took about forty minutes to get there since it was across town from where they were. She wasn't exactly in any hurry to arrive, enjoying the familiar sights and places of memory as they drove through the city. She had never really thought about it before, but she realized that as many bad memories as she had here, she had just as many good ones.

"Holy hell, you weren't kidding," Trevor declared when they'd arrived outside the Last Dime Motel, which looked even worse than the last time Sonia had seen it. She hadn't thought that was actually possible. "Cheap, trashy, total shithole. It's _perfect!"_

"Alright, just pull in here. I'll go get a room."

The man parked the SUV right outside the front office, which looked more like a metal shack that had been conjoined with the rest of the weathered and worn-out brick complex. Sonia grabbed her handbag, got out, and went inside.

The office was small and stuffy. The only thing that offered any kind of air conditioning was a little noisy unit sitting inside one of the office windows. There were a couple of chairs and a magazine rack sitting just off to the side of the front door, and in the midst of the room was the 'reception desk', nothing more than a folding table, where a gaunt and haggard middle-aged woman sat, fiddling around on a laptop.

The woman looked up with cold disinterest. "You need a room?"

Sonia stepped up to the table. "Yeah, uh..." She wasn't sure exactly how long they were going to be here, so she just gave the woman a number. "Two nights."

"Single or double?"

"Double."

The woman went back to her laptop, typing away at the keyboard. "Cash or credit?"

"Credit."

The woman held out her hand. "That's gonna be seventy-five dollars."

Sonia dug through her purse and slapped the credit card in her outstretched hand. She watched as the woman ran it through one of those bulky, ancient card readers nobody used anymore, then she made Sonia sign her name on its little display.

The woman opened up a metal box sitting on the table and pulled out a room key, holding it and Sonia's credit card out. Then, with the robotic voice of someone who'd become accustomed to spouting the same old pitch everyday, she said, "What happens in Venturas stays in Venturas. Enjoy your stay."

"Yeah, thanks," Sonia muttered as she headed for the door. "I guess." _Jesus, whatever happened to service with a smile?_

Trevor was picking at his nails and looking mighty bored and impatient when she got back into the car.

"Okay, we're in room..." Sonia held up the key and grinned, then flipped its little paper tag over to show him. "Well, look at that, lucky number seven."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, okay, whatever."

They got a good parking space, right outside the room. The room, on the other hand, wasn't so good, not that Sonia had expected it to be. It was hot inside, as some idiot had forgotten to turn the AC unit on, and it stunk to high heaven, reeking of stale cigarettes, sweat, and sex. The two beds in the room were covered in bright, garish linens and there was an old rickety table and two chairs placed in front of the only window in the room. A box TV sat on a small stand across the room from the beds. There were weird stains in the off-white carpeting and the tacky, stripped wallpaper was peeling off the walls.

"_Two_ beds?" Trevor immediately noticed with disapproval. "What's up with that?"

"It's cute you thought there'd only be one," Sonia remarked as she dropped her handbag and purse on the floor by the door and crossed over to the AC unit, which was a big, long atrocious metal thing placed near the bathroom. "And if that _had _been the only option available, you'd be sleeping on the damn floor."

She flipped open the little plastic panel that covered the controls and turned the power knob. The unit sputtered to life, then promptly died. Frowning, Sonia twisted the knob back and forth between the on and off position, because that's what you usually did with faulty appliances to get them to cooperate.

"And here I thought you wanted to _be_ with me," the man said as he flopped back on one of the beds and stretched out, lacing his hands behind his head.

"I wasn't talking about _just_ sex."

He perked up real fast, rising up on his elbows. "_Just_? As in, sex is _also_ on the table? As in, my chances just increased?"

Sonia had stopped listening. "What's the fucking _deal _with this thing?" She stepped back and gave the air conditioning unit a swift kick in its side. It sputtered to life again and cold air began spilling from the top vents. "Ha! And they say violence solves nothing."

Pleased with herself, she went back to the front door and picked up the brown sack containing her fresh change of clothes, then headed off for the bathroom. "I'm gonna go take a shower."

Trevor followed her into the bathroom. "I'll come with. Y'know, to make sure there ain't any mafia goons hiding behind the shower curtain."

She turned to him and put a hand against his chest. "Yeah, nice try. And for the record, I don't need you to protect me."

His face changed then, turning a dark shade of dangerous. He stepped forward, pressing against her hand, his own hands grasping at her shoulders. "Nevertheless, I'll fucking kill anyone who lays a finger on you."

Sonia frowned. "Including yourself?"

Trevor scowled at her in his confusion. "You wanna be with me, but you don't want me to fucking touch you?"

"I don't mind if you touch me...when I _want_ to be touched. It's being punched in the face and nearly strangled that I could fucking do without." And with that, she shoved him back out of the threshold.

Trevor opened his mouth to argue, but Sonia shut the bathroom door in his face and turned the lock.

"Listen," he called through the door. "You'd just fucking run off on me and I'd just lost _everything_; I was fucking _pissed _and fucking _devastated_, and I wasn't fucking _thinking, _alright!? I'm...I'm _sorry_, alright!?"

She didn't say anything, knowing her silence would irritate him. And she _wanted_ to irritate him, just to get back at him for accusing her of using him. Fucking shithead.

"Are you listening to me!? I said I was fucking sorry!"

Sonia walked over to the shower and turned the knobs, adjusting them to the temperature she preferred. Then she heard something bang against the bathroom door and Trevor's frustrated shout of "Argh! _Women_!"

She smiled to herself and began to undress.

* * *

**A/N:** Yeah, if I lived in the GTA universe, I'd keep my car door locked too. Actually, I probably wouldn't even leave the damn house. Anyway, I took many liberties with Las Venturas' description and locales, because my memory isn't that good and I'm too lazy to dig up my PS2 to play San Andreas again. So don't come to my house and beat me up for getting anything wrong. It was intentional. :P


	21. Chapter 20: Tattered Souls

**Chapter Twenty: Tattered Souls**

* * *

Sonia and Trevor sat inside their stolen SUV, which was parked near the curb, two buildings down from a restaurant dubbed Licensed To Grill. It was a cozy little establishment ensconced between a sex shop and a Bean Machine at the north end of the Strip, just a short drive from the pink architectural horror known as The Lady Luck Casino and Resort.

According to Sonia, both casino and restaurant were under the ownership of notorious mafia boss Joe Pierno. The former had been acquired back in the early 2000's, when it was still called The Emerald Isle Casino. Back then the Piernos had been small fish making insignificant ripples in the ocean of organized crime, but the purchase of the Emerald had caused a wave of discontent, particularly because it had been under the ownership of Tony Centore a month earlier, before he'd been found dead in the men's restroom at Licensed To Grill, face down in the urine trough with two knives embedded in the back of his neck. The unceremonious murder of one of the heads of the four major families didn't exactly sit well, and the rapid purchase of his casino had been more than a little suspicious. The Venturas Committee, which consisted of those four major heads(dwindled to three, after Centore's death) and more or less acted as a kind of mafia senate, had ordered Joe to a meeting after he'd bought out the Emerald and was put under interrogation about Centore's death. Joe denied any responsibility_,_ and Salvatore Lupo, who had then been a respected member of the Committee, backed up his claim.

Of course, Sonia knew the truth of it. Pierno had wanted to front his business through one of the big casinos and put himself on the underworld map and Lupo had always seen Centore as a major threat, so the two men had joined forces out of mutual benefit and covered up their unsanctioned power move, cementing a long-time, secret alliance.

It wasn't long after that Joe Pierno purchased the very restaurant where Tony Centore had choked to death on his own blood with the reek of piss in his nose. And it was from here that Joe conducted a good deal of the family's business and hosted many a sit down, most of it taking place in his private office, away from prying eyes and ears. The restaurant also served as a hang out spot for his crew. Normally, a large number of mafiosi gathering at one place was considered foolish, attracted far too much attention, but Sonia knew it was a grand show of confidence on Joe's part. Not that he had no reason to be confident. The family operated the biggest narcotic ring in the city and had a lot of powerful friends, including a Colombian crime lord, the state's governor, and a member of the US Senate, the latter two known in the underworld to be terminal crack fiends.

"If Joe's going to be anywhere," Sonia said as she eyed the establishment and the two, beefy suited men standing guard right outside the front door. "It's going to be here. If memory serves, his office should be on the second floor, north side of the building. The front's guarded, I'm sure you noticed. The back entrance always is too; two men, _maybe_ more if anyone inside decided to come out for a smoke or something. The back way's the smartestoption, though. It's closest to the office, and if we can get in quiet, we won't face much resistance."

"Ugh, _Good Lord_," Trevor groaned as he dropped his head back against the seat's headrest. "Why you gotta fucking be like that, huh? _Logical_ and _anal retentive_. Really chaps my ass. I mean, it's not like we're robbing a fucking bank here. So why don't you stop being a control freak and loosen the fuck up? Fuck the details, fuck the plans. Wing it, improvise, get fucking crazy! Bust through the front door and make some fucking noise!"

"You know what, I'm good," she said, shaking her head at him. "I prefer being the sane, logical one in this relationship. Helps balance out all your crazy."

"And that's exactly wh-" Trevor stopped short and stared at her, as his brain finally registered what she'd said. "Whoa, whoa, wait, hold on. _Relationship_? So it's official, then? Ha, I can't fucking _wait _to rub this in Michael's fat turd face! You know, he always said I would never-"

"Do you have ADD or something?" Sonia interrupted. "Stop changing the subject. Look, if we bust through the front door and start shooting up the place or something, Joe's bodyguards will spirit him away in a heartbeat while we're trying to kill off the twenty plus mafia soldiers inside that restaurant. And then we'll likely have to deal with the cops too. Considering Joe is your ticket to getting Brice, I would think you'd want to play this smart."

Trevor got quiet for some moments, giving the restaurant or perhaps the pair of goons standing guard outside a pensive stare. He chewed the inside of his cheek for another handful of seconds, then made a sullen face. "Alright, _fine," _he conceded with childish resentment. "We'll do it_ your _fucking way." He faced her again with a somewhat threatening look and jabbed a finger at her chest. "Consider yourself fortunate I love you, sunshine, otherwise this would _not_ be fucking happening."

"Or maybe you just _know_ I'm right." Grinning, Sonia reached over and patted him rather teasingly on the top of his head. "Cheer up. At least you'll get to break your mafia kill cherry."

Trevor swatted her hand away. "When I imagined breaking my cherry," he grumbled. "I imagined taking out a whole goddamn _army_ of the fuckers."

Ignoring the complaint, Sonia turned a bit in her seat to reach into the back, where a black duffel bag sat. It contained their mini arsenal, which they had purchased prior to arriving at the restaurant and on Trevor's dime, since Sonia hadn't been able to afford it on her measly government change. The duffel bag held over ten thousand dollars worth of guns and ammunition, and was heavy as sin as she dragged it to her, sitting it between the front seats.

Unzipping the bag, Sonia reached inside and shifted some things around, then brought out a combat pistol with an attached suppressor and two full magazines. She loaded one into the mag well and pulled back the barrel slide to chamber the first round, then handed the gun and the extra mag over to Trevor.

She performed the same procedure with her own combat pistol and pocketed a second magazine, then she looked up into the rear view mirror to adjust her Marilyn Monroe-style blond wig and dark aviator sunglasses, also purchased prior to arriving, but on her own dime. Trevor had ribbed her about the disguise almost nonstop on the drive over.

She'd thought he'd gotten his fill of making fun of her, but apparently not.

"Did I mention you look like an idiot in that wig?" Trevor jeered with a sneer. "It's a crying shame you make such a _horrible_ blonde. I prefer blondes, just so you know." He peered down at her chest, lingering there longer than he'd meant to. "And bigger tits."

"That's nice," Sonia casually dismissed. "But I'm not exactly wearing this stupid wig, nor did I grow breasts, for your benefit."

"Yeah, now _there's_ a fucking surprise. What do you _ever_ do for me?"

"What would you _like _me to do for you, Trevor?" she teased.

He narrowed his eyes. "Are you _flirting_ with me or are you just being a smartass? I can't tell."

Sonia merely smiled and pushed her door open to get out.

Trevor followed suit, and they both started up the sidewalk toward Licensed To Grill. The two goons standing outside the restaurant were angled a little bit away from them, talking to each other, but the sidewalk was too open for Sonia and Trevor to make a clean break for the alleyway that led to the back of the building. They needed some cover or a distraction, and they soon got one.

When a small group of pedestrians wove around them, they fell in line behind them, following until they could dodge unnoticed into the alleyway. Sonia drew her combat pistol from the waist of her pants and crept along the side of the building, holding the gun in both hands with the muzzle pointing at the ground, the same way the cops do. She could hear voices coming from the way she was headed, male, maybe two of them. She drew up as close to the corner of the building as she could and flattened her back against the wall, then peered around the edge until she had the rear entrance guards in her peripheral.

"I swear on Mother Mary's tits," one of them was saying. "This broad 'bout sucked my cock off! And right as I'm 'bout to blow my load down her throat, her mother busts through the door. I'm thinkin' 'shit, this ain't gonna end well.' She's gonna fuckin' call the cops or attack me or some shit and I'm gonna have to kill the bitch. 'Cept she doesn't. You know what this slut does? You ain't gonna believe it! She _joined in_!"

The other one laughed. "You're right, man, I don't believe it! You're full of shit!"

"Hey, fuck you!"

The two proceeded to argue the validity of the story, and Sonia looked to her left, where Trevor stood close, shifting his weight from foot to foot, eager as ever to spill blood.

She held up two fingers.

He nodded once.

Gripping her pistol firmly in her right hand, Sonia drew it around the side of the building, angling her body a little, and adjusted her aim until it was squarely targeted on the head of the guy standing closest to her, facing away.

She squeezed the trigger. The gun made a muffled _phhhht_ sound and blood spattered the wall the man was standing near.

As he crumpled to the ground, the remaining goon cried out in shock, "Oh! What the fuck!?"

Trevor burst around the corner then, gun raised. The last thing the guard saw was his gruesome smile, then his head jerked back in a spray of blood.

Sonia stepped around the corner just as the restaurant's back door opened and a suited man appeared. He looked between the two strangers, then down at the two bodies on the floor. He reached into his suit jacket, probably for a weapon, and opened his mouth, probably to call for backup, but he didn't get far in doing either.

Trevor put a bullet in his throat.

The dying man clutched at his neck and gurgled on his blood. He reared back and Sonia lurched forward, grabbing him by the front of his shirt before his body fell and made any unwelcome noise on the hard floor inside the building. She jerked him forward out of the threshold and he landed on one of the other bodies, hardly making a sound.

Sonia stepped through the doorway and was greeted with the mouth-watering aroma of grilling meat coming from the kitchen. Her stomach grumbled, reminding her that she hadn't eaten since yesterday.

She looked around the dimly lit corridor as Trevor prodded her to get a move on. She waved an impatient hand at him and strained her ears for any sounds outside the static of chatter and laughter coming from the dining area, but she heard no frantic footsteps or shouts. It seemed no one knew they were there yet, but that wasn't likely to last long, especially if the guards out front decided to come around back and noticed the bodies.

Sonia started up the set of stairs to her right, Trevor practically on her heels. At the top, they came to another corridor, this one lined with doors. Sonia made a beeline for the second one on the right, grasped the knob, and yanked the door open.

She burst inside, gun raised.

The office was empty.

Frowning, Sonia lowered her pistol to her side. "Damn it..."

"I thought you said if this bastard was gonna be anywhere it would be _here_?" Trevor griped from behind her.

"I did. Just because he ain't in his office doesn't mean he ain't in the building. He's probably downstairs in the dining area."

"Right, right, at the front...where I'd suggested we come in in the first place, but, oh no, we had to do things _your_ way. Quiet and boring, and doomed to fail from the start."

Sonia turned to him with a scowl, and for half a second she considered smacking him. "Just wait here while I go check."

Trevor looked rather pleased with himself as he stepped behind the big, intricately carved mahogany desk in the room and plopped down in the black leather chair behind it. "Oh, yeah, sure, go _right _ahead." He propped his grimy boots up on the desk, dropped his gun in his lap, and laced his hands behind his head. "Me, I'm just gonna sit here and relax. You let me know when you're ready to handle this _my _way."

Sonia turned on her heel and stomped out of the room, grumbling, "Arrogant prick."

"_Hey_! I heard that!"

Coming down the stairs, Sonia followed the hallway until it came to a corner. She stopped there and looked around it to make sure the way was clear. This corridor was longer and ended in a set of swinging double doors, which, as she remembered, led out to the dining area. A similar pair of doors lined the left side of the wall and led into the restaurant's kitchen.

She had to make this quick. The wait staff were always coming in and out of those doors.

And as if on cue, a man in black slacks and a white shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows stepped out of the kitchen with a tray full of food balanced on his palm.

As soon as he went through the doors that led out into the dining area, Sonia tucked her gun in the waist of her jeans, came out around the corner and hurried up the hallway, quietly as she could manage.

The doors were still swinging a little when she got to them. She pressed one open a little and peered through the crack.

The dining area was packed with patrons, normal folk and mafiosi alike, though anyone not from the underworld wouldn't have been able to tell them apart. Sonia saw several familiar faces among the diners, made men she had worked with or had simply shook hands with at meets or social gatherings in the past. She was surprised she remembered so many of them, considering there had been too many introductions to count. Her old boss had been a bit nontraditional, at least in his belief that the mafia should welcome more women into their fold. As it was, Sonia had been one of only two made women that existed among the Venturas families, the other being Milena Montagna. Lupo had been proud of that fact and often showed Sonia off, presenting her to whomever he could. It had made her feel a little like she was some kind of sideshow freak.

_Bet he regrets ever initiating me now, _she thought as she quelled her own regrets.

Sonia didn't see Joe Pierno among the patrons, so she turned to head back to the office.

And froze.

A waitress stood there, staring at her, frowning.

Sonia played it cool, putting a hand over her chest and forcing out a small laugh. "Scared me. Didn't know you were there."

"You're not supposed to be back here," the waitress said with a half scolding tone. "Can't you read the sign outside the door? _Staff only._"

"I'm supposed to be meeting Mr. Pierno on business. He wasn't in his office, so I came down to see if he was having lunch or something."

The waitress looked her up and down. "You're not _dressed_ for a business meeting."

Sonia narrowed her eyes. "The meeting didn't require formal attire."

"Well, Mr. Pierno isn't here. In fact, he hasn't been here in almost a week. If you're supposed to be meeting him on business, I would think you'd _know_ he hasn't been here—someone would have informed you of that." The waitress gave her a suspicious look. "Who are you?"

The woman was smart, too smart for her own good.

_You should've backed off and went about your waitressing, _Sonia thought as pulled her gun and lunged at the woman.

Sonia got a hand clapped over the woman's mouth before she could scream and jammed her pistol's muzzle into her stomach. "Not a sound or I'll put a bullet in your gut. It's a painful way to go."

The waitress nodded her head as tears filled up her wide, terrified blue eyes.

Sonia prodded her with the gun. "Back up. Keep moving until I tell you to stop."

She did as she was told, backpedaling up the hallway, Sonia moving with her. The woman stumbled over her own feet a few times, but kept her balance. Sonia got her backed up through the rest of the hallway to the stairs, where she had her stop.

Sonia rose her gun to the woman's temple. "You should've minded your own business."

The waitress let out a muffled scream that was cut short when Sonia squeezed the trigger. She felt the warm spray of blood on her face. The woman's corpse dropped to her feet. Sonia stepped over it and started up the stairs.

Trevor was taking a long swig out of a glass decanter containing some amber liquid when Sonia stepped back into the office. He sat the decanter on the desk, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and let out a charming belch, all while giving her a critical once-over. "So, now you're killing people without me? I'm _hurt_. We're supposed to be sharing these experiences—y'know, as a _couple_."

"Never mind," Sonia dismissed. "Let's go. He ain't here; he never was. He hasn't been around in almost a week."

* * *

"So, then, _where_ is he?" Trevor asked when they were back in the SUV.

"Only other place he could be is the Lady Luck," Sonia answered as she started the vehicle and pulled it out into traffic. "Pierno usually leaves it to his sons to run things together at the casino, but since Paul's in San Andreas..." She shrugged. "Could be filling in for him. His youngest son Gino, he's capable, but he's short-tempered. Joe'll probably be there just to keep him line, make sure he don't do anything stupid."

From the restaurant, it was only a ten minute drive to The Lady Luck Casino, and might have been shorter if not for some traffic on the Strip.

The big, three story building was a hideous hot pink color that was lit up with neon green lights at night. The drive that led to the main entrance, where valets will park your car for an exorbitant tip, arced around a tall, stone representation of Lady Luck in her barest form, standing in a stone pool, her arms outstretched to welcome visitors. She was surrounded by green shrubs, pink blossoms, palm trees, and jets of water that shot up to her height and cascaded down her nudity to pool in the huge basin beneath her, where many a person has tossed her some coinage in exchange for her blessing of fortune.

Sonia drove on to the back of the casino and pulled into the employees' parking lot, which was packed full of vehicles. It took a little hunting, but she eventually found a spot that would give them a good enough view of the back entrance.

She put the SUV in park, rolled down the windows, and then killed the engine. "There's just one problem," she said.

"Oh, but of _course," _Trevor said. "Isn't there always?"

Sonia smiled a little at his grumpy tone. "The top floor of the casino is where the owner's offices are, and where Joe will likely be. It's restricted access. You need a keycard to get in, and only Joe, his two sons, and his bodyguards have them. So, sit back and relax. We're gonna have to wait until one of them shows up. Who knows, maybe we'll get lucky and it'll be Joe and we won't have to worry about getting inside."

"Argh, fuck, I don't like waiting. What about emergency stairwells, that sort of thing?" Trevor asked, even though he had a feeling it was a waste of time.

She shook her head, knowing what he was thinking. "All the stairwells have access to every floor, but the top floor doors still require a keycard."

"Fucking figures. Look, I don't got the patience for this shit. _You_ can sit out here and wait. I'll go in, see if the bastard's out on the floor. What's he look like?"

"Short, fat, balding, always wears a white suit and he's always flanked by two huge guys in black suits. You won't miss him."

Trevor opened the door to get out, but Sonia reached over and grabbed his arm. She got an impatient look from him.

"And if you see him, _call me._ Don't do anything crazy," she cautioned. "There's a _lot_ of security and they blend in with everyone else."

Trevor rolled his eyes as he shook her hand off his arm. "Yes, _Mother_. You just _abhor_ the idea of me having any fun, don't you?"

"No, I abhor the idea of you getting _killed," _Sonia retorted.

"Good to know you care," he said rather dismissively. "But I'm a big boy now, sunshine. And in case you've somehow failed to fucking notice, I can handle myself. Was doing it long before you ever came along."

He stepped out of the SUV, shut the door, and headed off for the casino's back entrance.

Sonia frowned and shook her head. Sure, he could handle himself, but sometimes she couldn't help but wonder if he had a subconscious death wish. That might explain his weird little desire to _needlessly_ put himself in dangerous, idiotic situations—or 'fun', as he liked to call it.

She palmed her face in frustration, mostly at herself. "Urgh, what am I _doing_?" Specifically, what was she doing with _him, _knowing in her goddamn gut that he was going to get himself killed one day and put her through that awful fucking pain she never wanted to feel again.

Sonia had no answer outside of just wanting him and seemingly having no control over that want, as if it were just built out of instinct. And it fucking frustrated her that the whole thing was that simple, that it wasn't as complicated as it _should've_ been.

She sat there in the SUV for close to an hour, watching the back entrance. A few people came in and out, but no one Sonia was expecting.

She pulled her cellphone out of her hip pocket and decided to give Brian a call, see if he'd made any headway with locating Brice yet.

The man answered on the second ring, "Hello?"

"Brian, it's me. Just wanted to check in, see if you've had any luck with Brice yet."

"Sonia. Yeah, I'm still working on it. Might have a lead. I've been tailing Paul, and he's made a few trips to some house in the hills around Grapeseed. I'm thinking Brice might be there, but I need to do further surveillance before I can confirm. What about you?"

"Same. Working on it. I'm outside the Lady Luck right now, waiting to see if Joe's around. He wasn't at the restaurant."

"That's unusual."

"I figure he's filling in for Paul at the Lady Luck, to make sure Gino doesn't do anything reckless." She sat up a little in her seat when she noticed Trevor returning. "Listen, I gotta go. I'll let you know when we have Joe."

"Alright. Good Luck."

"You too."

Sonia ended the call and stuck her phone back in her pocket as Trevor opened the passenger door and ducked into the seat.

"Anything?" she asked.

"Nope, didn't see 'im. And security might have kicked me out and banned me for life. You believe that shit? _Banned_ me! Total fucking bullshit."

"What did you do?" Sonia sighed.

"Nothing that warranted the unfair treatment I received. Bastards were looking at me funny the moment I came in. Started breathing down my neck for being a 'looky-loo', so I sat at a Blackjack table and played a few rounds. Then those glorified fucking mall cops accused me of 'counting cards' and hustled me outta the place."

"Were you?"

Trevor made a face. "That's _not_ the point. They singled me out the moment I walked through the door."

Sonia smiled. "Well, you do have a rather suspicious look about you."

"Yeah, fuck you too."

They lapsed into silence and kept their vigil on the back entrance. It was going on five in the afternoon, so more casino employees were coming in and out of place as shifts changed.

Not ten minutes later, Trevor began getting antsy, shifting around in the seat and sighing every few seconds. Sonia was no fan of waiting around either, but he didn't have to act like it was fucking torture.

"If you need something to do," she said. "You could try working on your patience."

"Or, since you seem to not wanna _shut the hell up_," Trevor shot back. "You could _finally_ answer my question."

She quirked a brow. "Uh, you never asked one."

"_Uh_, yeah, I did. Coupla days ago? I asked _who was it_, and you freaked the fuck out on me? Ring any bells?"

Sonia's every muscle tensed up. She knew what he was referring to, and she did _not_ want to talk about that. She could've sworn she'd made it clear to him before that the subject was _verboten_. "I told you it wasn't important."

Trevor, always a direct asshole, didn't mince words and went so far as to serve them with a side of sarcasm. "Oh, yeah, _sure_. You were only _raped_ by someone you trusted. And that was _nothing_, right? I mean, it's not like it traumatized you so much you cringe at the very mention of sex—which is _weird_ for someone who used to sell their body for heroin, by the way. I don't fucking get that."

"I don't fucking care if you get it or not!" Sonia spat viciously, unable to rein in her defensive anger or help the sudden urge to want to tear his vocal organ out. _Let's see him try to fucking talk about this without a larynx_. "You're only bringing this up because you're bored. And quite frankly, Trevor, you can go _fuck_ yourself. I'm not gonna talk about this shit just to keep you _entertained_!"

His face curdled and his hands curled into fists, and Sonia knew he was getting pissed. _Good. _

"I'm bringing it up because I _want_ a fucking _answer_," Trevor growled.

Sonia locked on his eyes, her own as black and hard as obsidian. "_Tough shit." _She narrowed those eyes, daring him to press the issue.

"You know, for all your talk about not wanting to be 'that person' anymore, you still have _no fucking problem_ sticking like glue to the pathetic coward routine."

Sonia bristled. "Fuck you!"

"Ooh, temper, temper," Trevor mocked with a laugh. "Listen, sweet cheeks, if you don't wanna be called out on your bullshit, don't bullshit me. That simple."

"It _wasn't_ bullshit!"

"No? Well, let's see some fucking proof, then, 'cause the way I see it, not talking about it is the same as running away from it."

She sighed and looked away from him, her anger deflating. "It's not that easy, Trevor. You're asking me to _relive_ that shit."

"Yeah, I am, and as I recall, I ripped open _my_ tattered, rotten soul and bled out the horrors of _my_ past for _you_. The least you could do is show me the same goddamn courtesy."

"But I'm not _you_, Trevor. I mean, when you told me about your shit, it was like it was nothing, like it couldn't touch you anymore. But _my_ shit..." Sonia shook her head, her eyes focused straight ahead, on the casino's back door. "Obviously it still has an effect."

"Yeah, no fucking shit. You think mine don't?" He put his arms out. "I mean, _look_ at me, sunshine, I ain't exactly the fucking poster boy for sanity."

Sonia did look at him, briefly, before gazing at that back door again. She was surprised that he'd admitted to it, given how egotistical he was, and it wasn't often that the insane were aware of their insanity; that was partly what made them insane in the first place. It was a weird little contradiction she found she actually liked. As obvious as he was most of the time, sometimes he was just as much a mystery.

But that didn't help her make a decision about her dilemma. She had never told _anyone _about what had happened to her; it was a secret she had kept her entire life, too ashamed of it to share it with anyone else—not that there had ever been anyone to share it with, mind you. Yet there was some small, deep down part of her that wanted to open that door and let him in, but she was terrified of what he would think and what he would do with that secret. He'd weaponized the things she'd told him before, used them to get a rise out of her or to hurt her, but they had been small things that _couldn't_ touch her. This was different. This was giving him the power to rip her open in the worst way.

"It's not just about reliving it," Sonia said, deciding to come clean. "It's...I'm afraid of what you'll think, what you'll do with it, okay? I mean, you've used shit against me in the past, so..."

Trevor leaned over and slipped a hand under that fake blonde hair, gripping gently at the back of her neck. "Look at me." After a moment of hesitation, she did and he gave her a crooked smirk. "Trust me when I say this, I couldn't _possibly_ think any less of you than I already do."

She pursed her lips and jabbed him in the chest with her elbow. "Shithead."

"Seriously," he went on, rubbing at the spot her elbow had struck. "I'm not gonna fucking judge you or use it against you, alright? You really think I'm _that_ cruel?"

"Yes," she answered with absolutely no hesitation.

"Well, yeah, you're right, I _can_ be that cruel, I mostly a_m_ that cruel, but I'm choosing _not_ to be."

Sonia rolled her eyes. "Only because you want your fucking answer."

"Uh, _yeah_, that's a given, but _no_, it ain't the only reason why."

She breathed out a long, tired sigh. _This has to happen. No matter how much it fucking hurts and terrifies me, I _have_ to do it. I have to trust him with it. _She took a breath and exhaled his name, that awful fucking name she thought she would never speak aloud to another human being as long as she lived. "Lorenzo." It made her skin crawl and her stomach turn sour. "That's his name."

Trevor rose a brow. "_Lorenzo_? That's it? No last name?"

"No..." She stared out the window, anywhere but at him. "I mean, yeah, there's a last name."

"_Well_?" he pressed.

It took her several moments, but she finally pushed it out. "Marinelli."

"_Lorenzo Marinelli_?" Trevor said with a distasteful tone. "What the fuck kind of name is..." And then it hit him. "Hold the fuck on. Isn't that _your_ last name? Wait...but you said it wasn't your father. So, you were _lying_ to me? _Again_?"

"No. It _wasn't_ my father." Her voice was hardly there.

"_Speak up_," he growled, losing his patience with her.

"_It wasn't my father_," Sonia repeated, a little louder. She hunched her shoulders and folded her arms tight against her chest, trying to make herself as small as possible. "He was...my father's brother."

"_Was_? So he's dead?" That did _not_ sit well with him. Trevor wanted the piece of shit alive, so he could personally peel his skin off until he begged to die.

She struggled with a response. "No...I...I don't _know_, okay? Maybe, maybe not."

Somehow that pissed him off even more. What the fuckwas she saying? "What do you fucking mean, you don't know?" he snapped at her. "Are you...are you fucking telling me you _didn't_ kill him? You _let_ that son of a bitch get away with it?"

Sonia flinched as if he'd struck her across the face. This was exactly what she feared was going to happen. Why did she trust him; why the _fuck_ did she go out on that limb, knowing in her gut that it was going to snap under her? And yet she couldn't blame him for judging her, either. She was an idiot, a goddamn fucking idiot.

She didn't want to be there anymore; she couldn't stand his judgment or her own, or those ugly, awful memories he was making her dredge up. She needed to put as much distance between those things and herself as she could. It was too much to deal with.

Trevor must've sensed her intention to run off, for his hand came down on her arm and gripped painfully tight just as she was about to throw open the car door and head for the end of the earth. "Don't even fucking _think_ about it! You're gonna fucking sit there and fucking answer me!"

"Let me _go_," Sonia pleaded, trying to pull her arm from his grasp. Her every instinct was telling her to punch the shit out of him and make a run for it, but she couldn't bring herself to hurt him. God damn him. She was thrust into this horrible position with no way out, and it was his fault, his fault, _his fault_. He'd cornered her here, and she hated him for it. _God damn him._

Trevor grabbed her chin with his other hand and pulled her face close to his, fingers digging into her jaw. "I'm _never_ letting you go, so I would suggest you fucking come to terms with it and answer my question. You _don't_ wanna fucking piss me off more than you already have."

Her gaze flickered between his mouth and his eyes. If Sonia hadn't realized he'd fucked her up before, she definitely knew it then. She wanted to kiss him. It was so fucking absurd and wrong for the situation, and yet there it was, as unable to be helped as breathing.

_I'm going mad,_ Sonia thought as she closed the distance and pressed her lips against his.

Trevor instantly responded, as if he'd anticipated it was going to happen, despite her never having initiated it before. Or perhaps he could no more control that response than he could his own rage.

It was just as intense as the first time they had truly kissed, overflowing with intoxicating sensations that left Sonia's mind as muddled as a drunk's. She still had enough sense, however, to break it off when he showed signs of getting too worked up, his groping hands trying to steal to second base.

The moment Sonia backed away, Trevor chased after her with a little growl of protest, leaning into her space and catching her at the nape of the neck to bring her back to him. She planted her hands against his chest and pushed, gently but firmly. There was a moment where he resisted her resistance, then, strangely enough, he backed off. She would've been lying if she said she hadn't been just a little worried that he might force himself on her. The fact that he wasn't made her feel like a complete asshole for thinking he would.

"What the hell was that?" Trevor said with a hoarse voice, and she couldn't blame him for being confused. He gave her a fuzzy look of warning. "If that was a fucking trick-"

"No," she cut him off. "No trick. I just...wanted to."

"You chose an odd fucking time to wanna kiss me," he pointed out.

"I didn't choose it," Sonia mumbled as she stared out the windshield. "And I didn't _let_ him get away with it. I just...couldn't kill him. My parents instilled their values in me, and they valued family more than anything. You don't wrong family and sure as fuck don't kill them. I was thirteen, just a stupid fucking kid that didn't understand what they really meant, that family goes deeper than blood. I thought if I killed him it would make me just as bad as him, or worse, and I couldn't fucking live with that. So, I just waited for the opportunity, and when it came, I ran and never looked back."

Trevor didn't say anything, and as his weird, uncharacteristic silence stretched on, Sonia risked a glance at him to find him glaring down the dashboard as if it had personally offended him.

_Well,_ she thought, _better the dashboard than me._

"You ran," he finally said.

"Yeah, it's kind of a bad habit of mine," she quipped darkly.

"And after all these fucking years you never tried to hunt that prick down, exact your revenge?"

Sonia shook her head. "I never wanted to go back there or see his face again. I didn't want the reminder. I just wanted to bury that part of my life..._forget._"

Trevor looked at her, anger and resent glimmering in his dark eyes. "And how'd _that _fucking work out for you?"

She frowned. "I don't expect you to underst-"

"Good, because I _don't_ fucking understand!" he snapped, that anger escalating. "You've had, what, _twenty years _to put that piece of shit in the ground where he fucking belongs, and you fucking _wasted_ them 'cause you were too much of a fucking coward to face him!"

"What the hell is wrong with you!?" Sonia shouted back. "What're you getting so pissed off for!? It's _my_ life! It's _my_ fucked up mistake! It's got nothing to do with you!"

Trevor leaned toward her, hands tightening so hard into fists that his nails cut into palms. He wanted to fucking hit her, and it took _everything_ he had not to. "It's got everything to do with me! You're not the only one who's been wronged like that, as you well fucking know, but they either drank themselves into a grave, fucked off to God knows where or I never knew their fucking names! I_ never_ got the fucking opportunity that you did!"

He drew back and got out of the car, slamming the door shut behind him.

_God. No wonder he's freaking out._ Sonia threw open her door and went after him. When she caught up, she reached out and grabbed his hand. "Wait-"

Trevor ripped his hand from her grasp and shoved her away. "Don't fucking touch me!" He pointed a trembling finger at her in warning, his breath coming out in heavy, uneven bursts. "Stay the fuck away from me or I'll...I'll fucking do something...just fucking stay away from me!"

He turned away and rammed a fist into the side of a nearby car, setting off the alarm and leaving behind a dent and some blood, then he stormed off.

Sighing, Sonia turned around and got back into the SUV. She sat there for some moments, breathing heavily as anger began to prickle under her skin, and it was all at herself.

She gritted her teeth and slammed her clenched fists down on the steering wheel. "_Fuck_!"

* * *

After brutally assaulting a couple of valets to vent some of his rage, Trevor made a phone call to Lester Crest.

"Lester, listen, I need a quick favor," he said when the call clicked over. "It's important."

"You again?" the geek replied with his usual imperious and annoyed tone. "Haven't I done you en-"

"Don't start your fucking crap with me, you jumped up, crippled cocksucker!" he cut him off, voice wavering with fury. "Or I'm gonna come over there, rip your fucking head off and shit down your goddamn neck!"

And just like that, Lester's tone changed. "Uh...okay, Trevor. Perhaps I spoke too hasty. My fault."

Trevor cleared his throat. "There, now was _that_ so hard? A little _fucking_ cooperation is all I ask."

"What do you need me to do?"

"You're gonna dig up some information on a certain raping, soon-to-be _horribly_ fucking dead, piece of shit."

"Okay, uh...just so I understand, I'm helping you murder someone?"

"_Noooo,_ you're helping me lay down the hammer of justice on a criminal who's gone unpunished for too long. You should consider this an _honor_, Lester. I mean, how often do you get a chance to help out the forces of good?"

"Okay...what's the person's name?"

"Lorenzo Marinelli, lives in Las Venturas." Just saying the name made his blood boil even more. He balled his free hand into a tight fist, nails biting into the little crescent-shaped cuts they'd made in his palm earlier. "_Lorenzo_. What kind of a _fucking_ name is that?"

"Any particular information you're looking for?"

"Just an address, and who he lives with."

"One second..."

Trevor could hear the little geek tapping away at his keyboard, then there was a pause.

"Okay," Lester said. "He lives at 476 Prickle Pine Road. Last census record shows he lives alone."

Trevor grinned his gruesome grin. "_Perfect_."

He ended the call and searched for a car to steal.

* * *

**A/N:** Well. _Yikes_.

Honestly, this was a fun and not so fun chapter to write.

Also, I love the word _verboten_.

Oh, and thanks for the review! Reviews make for a happy writer. :)


	22. Chapter 21: Stars

**A/N:** Okay, Dearest Readers, there's some _very_ disturbing stuff in this chapter, at the point Trevor comes in(yeah, woo, big surprise). Could be triggering. You've been warned.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-One:**** Stars**

* * *

Brice watched his brother from across the old, wooden kitchen table as he got acquainted with his new burner cellphone. It had been Brice's idea to get him one, after Rick's jailbreak and subsequent infamy. He was public enemy number one now, and Brice wouldn't be surprised if his Wanted notices were already showing up in police stations, post offices, and billboards across San Andreas, perhaps even the nation. Then there was the dreaded social media outlets, like Lifeinvader and Bleeter—great for people who wanted everyone to know about the drama in their lives or what they were having for dinner, not so great for wanted criminals who could do without the publicity.

The cops and feds turned into real bloodhounds when it came to sniffing out bank robbers, cop killers, or terrorists, and Rick now fit into the latter two categories. They would seek out any trace of him they could in hopes of locating him and bringing him to justice(and quickly up the execution line), which meant they would look into bank account activity and trace cellphones. Hence Rick's new burner, which was, much to the authorities' chagrin, virtually impossible to trace back to the owner.

Brice had gotten one for himself as well, not simply out of caution, but also because his smart phone had been left inside Sergio's car, which was, according to Paul, nothing but a burnt out, hunk of metal now. He'd sent a couple of his men to Cape Catfish when he hadn't gotten word from Clyde. That was how Paul had found out the bikers and his enforcer were all dead. Brice almost felt bad. He'd always kind of liked Clyde.

"Damn, features on this thing are whack as fuck," Rick complained. "Can't even listen to any beats on it."

"So listen to the damn radio like the rest of us," Brice said. "It ain't supposed to have good features. It's supposed to be practical and, more importantly, untraceable. I already programmed my new number into it and I got yours, so we're good to go."

Rick huffed as he sat his new phone on the table and sent it into a little spin. "I guess, man. So, when Czarnecki's guys gettin' here to pick up the product?"

Brice glanced over at the analog clock on the kitchen wall. It read 4:47 PM. "Soon. Said they'd be here at five."

Rick only nodded. He frowned and gave his phone another twirl. He seemed to be distracted by something.

"You got somethin' on your mind?" Brice prompted.

Rick's frown deepened, creating fissures in his forehead and around his mouth. It made him look ten years older. "I don't know, man...it's Paul, you know? Dude gives me the fuckin' willies. And now we're in his debt 'cause he busted me outta the clink? Last fuckin' thing we need is debt with the mafia. You can't ever pay that shit back; they don't _let_ you. Shoulda left me where I was, bro."

"That wasn't an option. Innocent or not, I wasn't lettin' you go to prison." Brice shook his head. "You prob'ly wouldn't've spent a month on death row, 'cause they would've bumped you up the execution line."

Rick banged a fist on the table in a show of anger. "But I _am_ innocent!"

Brice knew his brother must be feeling helpless and violated, to add to his anger and confusion, but he set him with a hard look anyway. It was like Rick thought he believed he was guilty, which wasn't the case. "I _know_ that."

Rick jumped up from his chair and paced across the kitchen and back. "How the fuck did I get bagged with multiple counts of murder and a fuckin' act of terror? I mean, _what the fuck_, bro?"

"You got that bitch to thank for that," Brice said, scowling at the thought of the woman who'd almost gotten him killed and was responsible for everything that had happened to his little brother.

Rick looked at him, brows hoicked. "Bitch? What bitch?"

"The one I was goin' out for drinks with, the one I didn't know was workin' for Philips until recently. Paul thinks she had somethin' to do with it, prob'ly had a 'friend' in the sheriff's department. Doesn't sound too far off, considerin' she used to be mafia and had a knack for blackmail, and the sheriff's department in this county is dirty as shit."

Rick's eyes flashed. "Man, you know me, I don't hit women, but if I ever meet her..." He made a show of slamming a fist into his palm. "I'll make a fuckin' exception."

Brice opened his mouth to say something, but paused when he heard the rumble of an approaching vehicle outside the house. It was soon replaced by the shutting of doors and muffled voices.

Brice rose from his chair, wincing a little when the movement stretched the sutured bullet wound in his stomach. There was always a throbbing pain there, but it only really bothered him when he was in the process of sitting down, standing up, laughing, anything that made use of his abdominal muscles. And bending over was simply out of the question.

"That's prob'ly them," he said as he strode out into the living room and over to the window. Brice pulled back the curtain and peered out, just to make sure it wasn't actually the feds come to haul his brother off to prison. He doubted they would find him out here, but better to be cautious than careless.

It wasn't the feds.

Brice had never met the men that Czarnecki had charged with running his business while he was in hiding, but he knew it was them. Partly because he wasn't expecting anyone else and partly because what they wore_ screamed_ 'criminals', albeit criminals circa 1970. The men, who were also identical twins, both wore a black leather jacket with a high collar and a white shirt underneath, blue jeans, gold chains around their necks and rings on their fingers, and dark aviator sunglasses over their eyes. Their dark hair was slicked back from their foreheads and they moved with a confident, we-own-the-world swagger. They looked like a pair of Whitey Bulgers, that old Boston Irish gangster from the 70's.

Brice went to the front door and opened it as the twins stepped up onto the broken down porch. One of them had a foot go through a rotten board and would have fallen had his brother not grabbed hold of him.

"Yeah, watch your step," Brice cautioned with a vague smirk. "Place's a death trap." He held a hand out to them. "Brice Murphy."

The twin who'd saved his brother a nasty fall grasped Brice's hand. "Declan Quinn." He gestured to his brother. "Sullivan."

"Call me Sully," the other grumbled as he dusted off the leg of his jeans. "And you need to fix your shit, man."

"I'll get right on that," Brice replied with a tone that hinted he wouldn't. He stood back from the door to let the twins inside.

As Rick introduced himself to the men, Brice closed the front door and started off into the kitchen, calling over his shoulder, "Brewski, anyone?"

"Yeah, I'll take one."

Brice wasn't sure which of the twins had said it. Their voices were as identical as their features.

"Rick?"

"Nah, B, I'm straight."

Brice opened the fridge, which was a bulky, white, dinged up monstrosity barely clinging to life in its lonely little corner of the kitchen. It had come with the house, as did most of the other, equally beat up appliances and the dusty, moth-eaten furniture. As shitty as the place was, Brice still liked it, mostly for the fact that it was situated in its own little basin at the foot of Mount Chiliad, totally secluded though still within walking distance of Grapeseed. Once the money started rolling in, he intended to fix the place up, maybe get an addition built for Alice. He thought Rick might like that. It was clear his brother was in love with the woman, and she seemed to be smitten with him. Besides, she spent so much time here she may as well have a room of her own. It probably beat going home to her lonely little trailer out in the desert, now that her leukemic son was staying with a grandparent when he wasn't in hospital for treatment. He made a mental note to give her some time off to be with her kid when shit calmed down.

Brice elbowed the squeaky door shut and came back into the living room with two beers in hand, where Rick and the twins were now standing over one of the plastic tubs that held thirty pounds of packaged methamphetamine, Czarnecki's total requirement. A second, smaller tub sat beside it, containing another twenty pounds. This was to make up for the lateness of the product.

"Who wanted the beer?" Brice asked.

Sully rose a hand. "Over here." He twisted the cap off after Brice handed the bottle over and took a long pull, then he saluted him with the neck of the bottle. "Appreciate it."

Brice merely nodded as he took a swallow from his own, then he got down to business. "Alright, boys. You've seen the product, now let's see the cash."

Declan held up a hand in a _stop_ gesture. "Tap the brakes, pal. No money changes hands until we've inspected and weighed the merchandise."

Brice cocked his head and smiled. "Don't you trust me?"

"The drug business is shark-infested waters, Brice. Only fools trust sharks."

Brice laughed. The man wasn't wrong. "Alright, then. Waste of time, but it's your time to waste. Have at it."

"Sully, get the kit."

Sully rolled his eyes, sat his beer down, and started off for the front door, grumbling, "Sully, do this. Sully, do that."

"Sully wouldn't have to be told," Declan snapped, "if Sully had remembered to bring the kit from the car in the first fucking place."

Sully shot him the finger on his way out.

Normally, Brice would not have allowed him to leave, as there was a potential for him to come back locked and loaded and ready to double-cross them, but Czarnecki would've been stupid to try and fuck them over, seeing as how Brice was his only supplier.

While Sully was gone, Declan said, "Czarnecki ain't pleased with the timing on the product. He needed this shit days ago."

Brice shrugged. "A couple of days ain't gonna put an irreparable dent in his business, but there's twenty extra pounds of product in that second tub to make up for the time lost, fifty total. You can account the 'tardiness'' on the recent problems I've been havin'."

"That's ain't his—" Declan started, and was interrupted by a sudden, loud pop from outside, what sounded like a car backfiring.

But Brice knew it wasn't a car. The unpaved road that led to the house was private, and he wasn't expecting any other visitors.

_Whatever that was, it ain't good, _he thought, reaching behind his back and curling his fingers around the grip of the pistol he kept tucked in his jeans. Just in case.

Declan knew it too. He gave Brice a look that was half suspicion and half confusion, then he hurried to the window, thrusting the curtain aside.

Declan made a noise, a kind of gasping choke, then he wailed out, "_Sully!_" He whirled around, his face contorted in a combination of rage and despair. There was a gun in his hand. "You double-crossing _fucks_! You killed my brother!"

Brice already had his own gun pulled when he heard the loud bang, not from his pistol. He thought: _Can't believe I've been shot _twice_ now in the span of a few days._

Except he hadn't been shot after all.

Declan's left leg came unhinged and he grunted as he dropped to the floor, losing his grip on his pistol. Brice kicked it out of his reach and looked around at his brother.

Rick stood there with his pistol aimed at Declan, his face creased in anger. He stepped forward and kicked the man in the face, sending him sprawling on his back. "You don't pull a gat on _my_ brother, motherfucker!" Rick kicked Declan again, this time in his injured leg. "Who the fuck you think you are?!"

Despite not knowing what the hell was going on, Brice's heart swelled with pride. Rick was a horrible fucking shot, but he'd acted; he did what he had to do to protect his family. In the end, that was all that really mattered.

Rick was about to hammer his foot into the man's leg again when the front door opened and three suited men came inside, all of them armed.

Brice pointed his gun at them and grabbed his brother to yank him away from them. Then one of the suited men aimed his gun down at Declan's head and squeezed the trigger. It was only then that Brice recognized the suit's face. One of Paul's men. They must've been the ones who'd killed Declan's twin while he was out at their car.

"What the fuck is goin' on?" he demanded to know, gun still raised.

The answer didn't come from any of the goons. It came from their boss.

"There is going to be a slight change in your plans," Paul Pierno said as he strolled through the door, looking down at the dead man with disinterest. "I've decided I want our partnership to be exclusive. As of today, you will not be supplying any other distributors but me."

Brice scowled at him. "Yeah, I don't fuckin' think so. _You_ don't fuckin' tell _me_ who I'm gonna do business with."

Paul held his hands out to Declan, whose head was leaking a puddle of blood on the floorboards, dead eyes fixed on the ceiling. "I just did, and seeing as how I went out of my way to spring your brother out of jail—and saved his life, I might add—I think refraining from whoring out _my_ product to other distributors is the least you can do. Otherwise..."

At this, the three men standing around Paul leveled their pistols on Rick.

With his heart in his throat, Brice jumped in front of his younger sibling, forcing himself to lower his gun before he went total fucking postal on Paul and his goon squad. The mafioso achieved something no one but the brothers' father ever had. He made Brice truly afraid, and fear made him _angry_. But he still had enough sense to know if he started shooting, he and his brother would both die.

"Fine," Brice said, trying to control the furious tremble in his voice and failing. "No other distributors."

Paul smiled his slimy smile and rose a hand. His men lowered their guns. "Excellent. Oh, and you might want to patch up those broken boards on your porch. Angelo nearly broke an ankle."

Brice said nothing as his fury ate away at his insides like acid. He thought: _I'm gonna kill you. One day, when you least expect it, I'm gonna fuckin' behead you._

"We will be taking the product you prepared for your _former _distributor as well," Paul went on.

"Czarnecki's gonna think I had somethin' to do with this," Brice pointed out.

Paul shrugged. "Don't worry about this Czarnecki. _I'll_ handle the fallout. _You_ focus on turning your gear." He looked down at the two tubs sitting in front of Brice. "How much product is here?"

"Fifty pounds."

Paul nodded. "Good, great. I want fifty more by the end of the week. And, am I to assume I'll be getting a reduction on the price per pound?" He smiled again and answered his own question. "Of course I am. Your brother's life is priceless to you, but this..." He threw his hands out at the two tubs. "Well, it's just drugs, am I right?"

Brice remembered something then, something Paul had said to him after he'd woken up from being shot and found out Clyde and the rest of the Sons were dead. _It's not the numbers that matter, it's how well you know your enemy. _Something to that effect. That made Brice wonder now who the man had been really talking about, what he had been truly implying.

_He knows me_, he thought, _but I don't know him._

"Boss!" someone called from outside.

Paul turned around.

Brice had to suppress an urge to raise his gun and put a bullet in the back of his head. If only his fucking goons weren't here, outnumbering them...

Outside, two of Paul's men were dragging another man toward the house and were having a time of it, as he was fighting them tooth and nail. One of the mafia goons delivered a brutal kidney punch to him and that stilled his fight. They shoved the trussed up man toward the porch, where he tripped and fell.

"Found this fucker in the hills," one of the goons explained. "Looks like he was watching the house. It's that Marshal. You know, the one we kept seeing on the news during Lupo's trial."

Paul bent over the tawny-haired, groaning man to get a look at his face, then he straightened up with a laugh. "I'll be damned. Marshal Brian Schmidt, imagine running into you out here. How is your son doing? I'd heard he'd gotten shot. Such a shame. So young."

Brian rose his head, his eyes flickering. "You heartless son of a _bitch_!" Despite his crippling pain, he lunged at Paul with a father's rage, but one of his goons kicked him in the ribs and he collapsed back onto the porch.

Paul smiled at him. "You couldn't have come at a better time, Marshal."

* * *

Sonia banged her forehead against the steering wheel a few times in a gesture of frustration, and grumbled to herself, "Goddammit, Trevor..."

His recent temper tantrum-slash-freak out still had her sitting alone in a stolen SUV, parked in the employees' lot of the Lady Luck casino, trying to figure out how she was supposed to pull off kidnapping a mafia boss on her own.

Sure, she _could _have called him and demanded he get his ass back here PDQ, but he'd made it pretty damn _clear_ that she should stay the fuck away from him, so she was going to do exactly that. And not just because it was good advice and she respected a person's need for time and space to get their head together, but also because it was seeming more and more like these storm offs of his were efforts of restraint, taking himself out of the equation before the equation got violent. Was it fucking _weird _and un-Trevor like? Definitely, but she wasn't going turn those efforts into _wasted_ efforts by pushing him to get back on track before he was ready to.

So, she was on her own in figuring out a way to kidnap Joe Pierno _and_ pulling it off.

Except she didn't get the time to figure it out.

As Sonia pulled her head up from the steering wheel and looked out the windshield, she saw a man step through the rear door of the Lady Luck, hair disheveled, suit jacket unbuttoned, dress shirt opened at the collar, face familiar. It was Gino, Joe Pierno's youngest son and likely carrier of the key card she needed to access the Executive floor, where she suspected Joe was.

Sonia grabbed her pistol off the passenger seat and exited the SUV.

She did a quick survey of the parking lot. There was no one else around. Good.

As Gino headed off to his car, Sonia crept along the aisle of parked vehicles, following him. Gino pulled something from the pocket of his wrinkled slacks. Nearby, a car tooted and flashed its lights.

The moment Gino opened the door of his fancy red Dinka Jester, Sonia came up behind him, silent as a shadow, suppressed combat pistol raised at the back of his head. The gun made its muffled _phhhht_ and Gino keeled forward. His head thumped the top of the door frame as he slid lifelessly to his knees, body slumping against the side of the driver's seat.

Sonia searched him and found the key card in his right pants pocket, then she worked to stuff the man inside his car, wrestling with his dead weight and limp limbs but eventually getting him inside. She shut the car door and faced the casino.

Now came the hard part.

Stepping through the building's rear door, Sonia found herself in a long, dark red corridor. She could hear the muffled thump of music, the rumble of people-chatter, and the electronic hoots and bells and whistles of gambling machines coming from the casino floor. And she smelled the strong, musty reek of stale cigarettes, the distinguishing scent of gambling houses; no matter which casino was your poison, they always smelled the same.

Sonia found the emergency stairwell next to the back door and started up, taking the steps two at a time. By the time she reached the top floor door, she was winded.

_Maybe he's right; maybe I _do_ need to quit smoking._

Sonia studied the electronic card reader mounted on the wall beside the door as she caught her breath. She pulled the key card from her back pocket and swiped it through the narrow slot. The little red light on the reader turned green and somewhere inside the door a lock disengaged with a _click_. She pulled it open and leaned through, looking around. The hallway was deserted, not that she had really expected anyone to be here, but better to be safe than sorry.

It was also conveniently carpeted, so getting around silently wouldn't be a problem. The problem was getting to Joe Pierno. Whether he was eating, sleeping, shitting, or doing business, his two bodyguards were always with him; they guarded him like the Secret Service guarded the POTUS. Getting past them to get to Joe was not going to be easy.

Sonia stepped through the door and made her way up the corridor. She stopped at the corner to peer around the wall into the next corridor, which was lined with a few doors. It was also clear, so Sonia continued on, checking the name plates on the doors as she walked by them. There was Gino Pierno, who would never step foot in the Lady Luck again, Paulino Pierno, who would soon be joining his younger sibling, and an Elijah Goldberg, a name Sonia had never heard in relation to the Pierno family or the casino. There was no job description under the name, but the man must've been important to have his own office on the Executive floor. The last door in the hallway was marked _Break Lounge_.

Ahead, the hallway split into two directions, left and right, and Sonia paused, not sure which way to check first. If Joe had guards outside his office(unlikely, but not impossible) and she chose the wrong direction, then they might see her and raise the alarm, then she would really be up Shit Creek without a paddle.

Sonia picked left.

It turned out to be the right choice.

Lining herself with the left corner put her in plain view of the right section of the hallway, which was deserted. Peering around the left corner, she saw two men flanking an office door, standing soldier stiff, hands clasped at a level with their crotch. They were both dressed in maroon polos that were tucked neatly into their khaki slacks, and their ID badges were clipped to the collar. On their hips, their pistols were holstered in black leather. One of the men rolled his head side to side, as if to work out a kink in his neck. The other stared straight ahead at the wall across from him, seeming to be deep in thought about something.

Sonia wondered why they were there. Usually Joe's bodyguards were enough security. Perhaps someone had green lit Joe. Or maybe he'd already gotten word about what had gone down at Licensed To Grill and put extra security on his office just to be on the cautious side.

_Fucking great. I need to lure them off somehow._

She turned back the way she had come, heading for the Break Lounge. She judged it was more likely to be unlocked than the offices. There were guards on duty up here, after all, and guards on duty usually needed caffeine to stay sharp through those long hours they stood around doing nothing, just on the off-chance that something might actually happen.

At the door marked Break Lounge, Sonia grasped the knob and turned it slowly until it opened with a soft, almost inaudible _click_. She pushed the door open, its well-oiled hinges not making a sound, and stepped into the lounge. A brown leather couch sat just off the left of the door with a little walnut coffee table placed in front of it, littered with glossy periodicals and an ashtray overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts. Three walnut tables and three pairs of matching chairs lined the wall across from the door. A section of wood-topped counters stretched along the right wall, alongside a tall, stainless-steel refrigerator and an E-Cola machine, both appliances humming in low tones. There were some walnut cabinets above the counters, and Sonia went to them, reaching up to open the doors. Inside, on the upper most shelves, she found a variety of snacks and some pouches of Bean Machine's house blend, many of them with holes eaten into their packaging, the obvious result of a mice problem. There were a bunch of ceramic coffee mugs on the bottom shelf, some with sayings on them, like '_Life's a beach'_ and '_World's Greatest (Mafia) Boss'._

Sonia hoicked a brow at that last one and grabbed it, then closed the cabinets. She stepped behind the door to the room, her back against the wall, then hurled the coffee mug against the far wall, where it came apart into a hundred pieces with a somewhat loud crash, followed by a cacophony of chinking sounds as the remnants came to rest on a table and the floor.

Sonia held her breath and listened hard.

"What the hell was that?" came a muffled, masculine voice.

"Probably those goddamn vermin again," another answered. "Exterminator's supposed to be coming in tomorrow morning."

"When's that guy coming to fix the security cameras up here?"

"When the exterminator takes care of the vermin problem. No point installing new cameras if the fucking mice are just gonna chew through the wires again."

_That explains why they're here_,_ guarding the door_, Sonia thought. She had forgotten to look for security cameras. She was only fortunate the ones on this floor weren't working. _I won't get that lucky again. Stop being stupid._

"Makes sense, I guess. Well, I'm gonna go check out that noise, anyway," the first guy was saying. "Beats standing around doing nothing, and I could use the damn coffee."

"Good. Be a sport and bring me a mug, will ya?"

"Yeah, no problem. You could use a new mug. One you were born with is hid-e-ous."

"You're a goddamn comedian, Marty," the man said with an annoyed tone Sonia could hear even through the wall. "Hi-lar-ee-ous."

She gripped her pistol in both hands and waited.

Soon, the guard named Marty made an appearance, stepping through the lounge's doorway. He stood there in the middle of the room for a second, staring at the mess of ceramic shards on the floor. "Fucking mice. Hey, Tom, they broke Mr. Pierno's favorite coffee mug!"

Tom didn't respond.

Sonia rose her pistol while the man's back was turned to her and squeezed the trigger. His head jerked forward, ejecting a bit of blood, which sprinkled the far wall. His body hit the carpet with a _thump_.

Sonia lowered her gun and stayed put. When Marty didn't return, the other guard would come to check on him, giving her a chance to take him out too. Then all she had left was Joe's bodyguards.

As she waited, she tried to think of how she was going to handle them. They were smart, at least a good deal more intelligent than Marty, and probably Tom too. They would never simply walk into a room without their gun drawn if they felt something was amiss. They also would've known to check behind the door, just in case. That instinctive caution and attention to detail is what made them good bodyguards. She would have to lure one of them out of Joe's office, which wouldn't be the hard part. Naturally, the bodyguard would investigate anything out of the ordinary; it was part of the job description. It was killing him that was going to be the hard part.

_And I have no idea how I'm gonna do it_, she thought.

A few more minutes went by, then Sonia heard the voice of the other security guard, Tom, approaching the lounge, "Marty, I don't smell coffee brewing. You better not be assing around in there or you're gonna get us _both_ canned."

The man stepped past the door and came to an abrupt halt when he saw Marty laying on the floor, a pool of blood haloed around his head. "Marty!? Shit!" The man turned on his heel, only to find himself faced with Sonia pointing a suppressed pistol at his head. He reached for his own, then dropped dead, an oozing hole in his forehead.

Sonia stepped out from behind the door and grabbed another mug out of the cabinet, sitting it on the counter for the time being. She turned to the bodies and studied them for a moment, then glanced over at the couch. She had an idea, a ridiculous one, but perhaps it would work.

Tucking her gun in her jeans, Sonia went over to Tom's body and bent over to grab under the limp arms. She dragged the corpse over to the couch, huffing and puffing from the effort. The man had to weigh at least two hundred pounds, and all of it muscle. "Jesus, Tom, were you on steroids?"

Tom didn't answer, of course. She would've shit her pants if he did.

After a few failed attempts, Sonia finally got him seated on the right side of couch, nearest to the door, his limp head lolling against the top of the back cushions. She sat down beside him to catch her breath and looked over at Marty's body. He had no part in her plan, but she still needed to move him out of sight.

Sonia dragged him behind the door, then grabbed a bunch of paper towels off the counter to clean up the blood trails as best she could. She threw some more over the puddle and dragged a table on top of it to hide or at least obscure the evidence. There was no way she could've cleaned that up without proper equipment.

_All this trouble I'm going to, this plan better fucking work._

She grabbed the coffee mug off the counter, turned off the lights, then left the lounge.

As expected, Joe's office door was now unguarded.

Sonia leaned out around the corner of the hallway and pitched the coffee mug at the door. It smashed against it as she leaned back into place behind the wall to wait and listen.

She heard the door open.

"What the fuck's going on out here?" a gruff voice growled.

"What is it, Vince?" someone else asked. This voice was muffled, but still familiar to Sonia. It was Joe.

"Fuck if I know," Vince answered. "Tom and Marty ain't at their fuckin' post and something broke on the floor."

"Check it out," Joe ordered.

"Yeah, you got it, boss."

Sonia drew away from the wall and hurried back to the break lounge on light feet. She sat on the couch with dead Tom and pulled his body against her, her left arm going around the back of his neck to hold his face against her throat. He was still warm. She slipped her gun a few inches under his right arm pit, angling it up toward the lounge's threshold. When Vince came in, he would turn on the lights to see Tom making out with his 'girlfriend'. If he didn't, then at least Sonia had a shield when he started shooting at her. Trevor had insisted she wing it, improvise, get fucking crazy for a change. Well, this was her winging it and improvising. And she was about to fake make out with a dead body. Certainly that qualified as a bit crazy.

Sonia heard the bodyguard approaching and made the appropriate moans and gasps and giggles of one in the midst of a fantastic make out session. She was going to need a long, hot shower after this.

"What the fuck's going on in here?" Vince demanded to know as he stepped into the lounge and flipped the lights on.

"Do you _mind_!?" Sonia shouted at him with the right amount of outrage. "We're in the middle of something!"

Vince's face contorted in irritation. "Do I look like I give a fuck!? He's on duty! Tom, get your fucking ass back to your post! This ain't a fucking hotel room and you know you ain't supposed to let anyone else up here!"

When Tom didn't respond, Vince reached a hand out to grasp his arm. That's when Sonia squeezed the trigger on her pistol. She had been aiming for his head, but she got him in his the right shoulder instead.

Vince jerked back a little with groan. He tried to raise his gun, realized his injured shoulder wouldn't let him, and tried to switch hands. Sonia got off another shot. Again she had aimed for his head and again she had missed, but it didn't matter. The bullet went through Vince's throat. He reached up with his left hand and pressed it against the gushing wound as he gagged on his own blood. He backed up against the door, his knees coming unhinged. He fell there, still choking, still trying in vain to stop the blood coming out of his neck. Then his hand fell away and he grew still, head lolling to one side, ribbons of blood streaming down the front of his dress shirt and suit jacket.

Sonia pushed the dead body away from her with an emphatic "Ugh!" and quickly removed herself from the couch. She left the lounge and hurried to Joe's office. The door was closed.

_There's only one left. I can do this, _she told herself.

Sonia reached out, grasped the knob and turned it. Gun raised, she burst through the door.

Joe Pierno, who was middle-aged, overweight going on obese, mostly bald, and dressed in a stark white suit with an unsightly red tie, looked up at her from his desk. His bodyguard, who sat in a chair before his boss' desk, got halfway turned in his seat before Sonia blew him away. She thought: _Did that just happen? Did I really just get that lucky? Joe named this casino well._

Joe flinched as his last bodyguard's blood sprayed into his face and speckled his white suit. It almost matched the red of his tie.

Sonia panned her pistol on Joe as she stepped further into the office. "Alright, Joe. Your security guards _and_ your bodyguards are all dead. There's no one left to protect you, so stand up, you're coming with me."

"Who are you?" he asked, as if she hadn't even spoken. "I feel like I've seen you before."

Sonia focused down the iron sights of her pistol. Her heart pounded furiously in her chest and thundered in her ears. She wanted to kill him. _God_, she wanted to kill him. But it wasn't her place. It was Brian's. It was his son Joe had killed. "_Stand the fuck up, _you child-murdering son of a bitch!"

Joe studied her hard, his bushy brows creased. "The hair's different, but I know that face..." His eyes widened a little as his hand moved discreetly under the desk, hitting the panic button installed there. "Yeah, you're that fucking rat cunt who brought down Lupo and his crew. Sonia, right?"

"Yeah," she spat. "I'm Sonia, the rat cunt, and Lupo's the incarcerated dumbfuck who should've listened to me about that fucking undercover fed!"

"So, that's why you sold Salvatore out?" Joe shook his head. "You were like a fucking _daughter_ to him. The mafia daughter he never had."

Sonia clenched her jaw, as if it were enough to push down the guilt his words dredged up. "Shut up! You don't know shit! He _never_ trusted me!"

"I know he took you in, I know he got you off heroin, I know he was very proud of you, one of the few made women the Cosa Nostra has had since we brought our ways here from the Old Country. He was so proud, in fact, that he had planned to condition you to succeed him. He wanted to make you the first female boss. Did you know that? That was how much potential he saw in you."

_It's not true, it's not fucking true_, Sonia told herself. It didn't make any sense. "Bullshit! I was just an enforcer. He _never_ would've planned for anyone of low rank to succeed him. You're just trying to get to me and it _ain't _gonna fucking work!"

"It's true, Sonia," Joe said. "Do you honestly think he was that fucking stupid, to not know that so called 'hitman' was an undercover fed? I was the one who recommended him, remember? You think I didn't know? We _both_ knew what he was, and Lupo knew how he wanted to handle him. You see, he was testing your instincts, and you knew right off the bat that he was a fed. So, when the fed asked Lupo for you to back him up on that capo hit, he agreed. He wanted to see what you were made of, if you would obey him despite your instincts or go with your instincts and kill the fed despite Lupo's orders. He wanted the latter. Good instincts and acting on those instincts are very important in a mafia boss. Admittedly, we didn't know the fed had a plan of his own. When you were arrested, Lupo had started making plans to get you out, paying people off...until he found out you fucking flipped. He trusted you, he trusted you more than his own capos, and you broke his heart."

Sonia shook her head hard. _No, he's lying. It's all a lie. It _has _to be._ "You're a fucking liar, and if you don't shut the fuck up, you're gonna be a _dead_ fucking liar."

Joe sat a little straighter in his chair, looking through Sonia with a smile on his plump face. "Well, it's about fucking time. Don't kill her. I have something better in mind."

Confused, Sonia looked back over her shoulder and made a startled noise. She hadn't even heard them. Where did they come from? Men, armed men standing behind her.

Sonia didn't get a chance to turn her gun on them. The man standing closest to her struck her hard across the side of the head with the butt of his pistol. Sonia stumbled forward, tripping over the chair where the dead bodyguard was slumped. She banged her head on Joe's desk on the way down, and everything went black.

* * *

When Sonia came to, she was immersed in total darkness, her hands were bound behind her back and her legs were tied together. She heard a low, rumbling sound, like a running motor, smelled gasoline and rubber, felt some rough surface against her right arm, and when she tried to straighten her legs, she couldn't. Her feet pushed up against a solid surface while her knees were still bent. She tried to raise her aching head next, and it thumped against another solid surface, this one metal.

Though some small, far back part of her brain knew she was in the trunk of a car, the bigger part in control—the part now panicking—insisted she was trapped in that small, dark closet the monster used to imprison her in when she was a kid.

_No...nononononono! Not again!_

Sonia started thrashing, kicking her bound legs as if she could kick her way out of her metal prison. She wrenched her arms and twisted her wrists as if she could break her bonds. The terror made her stomach clench and turn. She screamed commands and pleas and death threats.

A muffled voice told her to shut the fuck up. When she didn't, a radio turned on and turned up to drown out her wails.

Sonia didn't know how long she futilely fought her prison and screamed; time didn't exist in her terror, but her struggles eventually weakened as she exhausted herself. A hot flood of tears streamed down her cheeks. Her breaths came in ragged and deep and quick, though the air didn't seem to be enough to fill her lungs. Her throat felt constricted, as if a pair of hands were squeezing her windpipe and her chest felt like some great, heavy weight pushed down on it, threatening to crush her. She was hyperventilating and getting lightheaded, and if she didn't calm herself, she knew she would faint.

Sonia closed her eyes and envisioned a night sky, filled with countless little dots of starlight. She breathed deep, in and out, in and out, slowly, as she imagined flying in that sky, upward, higher and higher, until she was immersed in the dark matter of space. She felt light as a feather now, as she floated among infinite celestial bodies, crossing deeper into her own universe, further away from her situation, leaving it far behind. Her heart, which had previously been beating hard and quick as a jackhammer, began to slow to a normal rhythm.

_It's not the closet_, _it's not the closet, it's not,_ Sonia assured herself. _It's the trunk of a car, you fucking _know_ that. Now focus, find a way out. _

She _had_ to find a way out, because she knew what was happening now, she knew where she was being taken, and if she reached that destination, it was all over. They would kill her. They had all the right in the world to kill her, but she didn't want to die.

Trevor floated into her mind-space and her mouth twitched into an almost smile. She wanted to see him again, hear his voice, touch him, kiss him. She wanted to go back home to that shithole in the Senora Desert. She wanted to be there when he built up his criminal enterprise again, help if she could and if he wanted it. She wanted to raise hell with him. She wanted to be with him, to see where it would lead, because she was in love with him. He was strange and psychotic and _insane_, and she was fucking in love with him. She didn't know how she could know with no personal experience in the department, but she did; she knew it then as well as she knew her own name. It was one of those things you just _feel_, just _know_, like some people just know God exists or just feel the exact moment a loved one has died. It defied description. It just _was_.

And it _couldn't_ end here.

Sonia opened her eyes and shifted a little, feeling around with her feet, her legs aching from kicking and flailing them around so much. She couldn't feel anything in the trunk with her.

She shifted again and felt something hard press against her butt. It was small, flat, like a...

Sonia let out a gasp of surprise and relief. _A phone—_my_ phone! They didn't take it!_

She moved her bound hands, feeling out for her back pocket. Her fingers brushed the edge of her cellphone. She tried to pinch it between her fingers, but only managed to push the phone a little deeper into her pocket and that much further away.

"Damn it..." It came out a whimper.

Sonia tried again, stretching her arms until her shoulders popped, and her fingertips felt something _else _in her pocket this time, something longer and thinner than her phone. It was her switchblade. Of course it was. She always had it with her, and if they hadn't taken her phone, they hadn't taken her knife either. They must not have searched her at all after she had blacked out, probably didn't think she was armed with anything else since she'd been carrying her pistol in plain sight at the time.

_Their dumbass mistake, my advantage._

Sonia pinched the switchblade between the sides of her index and middle finger, sliding it slowly from her pocket and into her palm until she could get a firm grip on it. She felt around with her thumb and found the switch that popped the blade free. She reversed the knife in her hands so the blade pointed upward, fumbling with it but still able to hold onto it.

Sweat rolled down from her forehead into her eyes, stinging them. It was so hot and stuffy in there, and hard to breathe. She got the blade positioned against the zip-tie clamped tight around her wrists and started moving it back and forth, like a saw.

It took forever and she cut herself more times than she could count, but at last she felt the zip-tie come loose and Sonia let out a triumphant cry. It was a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

With her hands now freed, Sonia reached down to cut the ties binding her legs, then pulled her cellphone from her back pocket. She felt around for the button below the screen and pushed it to take the phone off standby. The trunk lit up a bit with its electronic light.

Sonia aimed it on the underside of the trunk, looking for the emergency lever that opened it; a feature that had been installed in modern cars for this exact situation. But there wasn't one. That at least told her something. This was an older car, and older cars weren't built as fastidiously as newer ones. There had to be some weak spot somewhere that she could exploit. There _had_ to be...

She shined the light from her cellphone along the sides of the trunk and noticed something in the upper right corner, near her head. There was a plastic, square panel there and one edge of it was pulled out a little. Sonia grabbed her switchblade and worked the blade under that edge to pry the panel off. When it popped out of place, it revealed a small, square niche lit up with faint red light around the outer edges. She instantly knew what it was. The back of the right taillight. There was also something stuffed at the bottom of the niche.

Sonia stuck her hand inside and pulled it out. It was roughly the size of a brick, weighty, somewhat soft, and wrapped in what felt like foil. Drugs—likely heroin; it was usually packed in foil.

She sat the drugs aside and shined light back into the niche again. She saw several more foil-wrapped heroin bricks lining the bottom. There had to be at least a hundred thousand dollars worth of the demon drug down there, but that didn't interest her. The taillight interested her.

_Maybe I can bust it out of the back of the car. Maybe I'll be able to see where I am._

There were some wires connected to the taillight's back panel, running around the side of the niche, where they disappeared inside the car somewhere. Sonia cut them loose and that red glow went out. She bashed the heel of her free hand against the taillight's panel, further splitting open the cuts on her palm. She gritted her teeth against the cruel pain and the warm, slick feel of blood oozing from her hand as she kept hammering at the taillight, hard as she could, grunting from the effort.

The taillight began to loosen from its home, and a few more hard hits sent it flying from the rear of car. The warm, welcoming light of dusk and the dry, hot desert wind spilled in through the hole and Sonia scooted close, until her face was pressed against it. She could see; she couldn't see a lot, but she could see enough. The street the car was driving on, _other_ cars, some familiar buildings...

Sonia started to sob in relief, another cry of triumph bubbling up her throat.

_Come on,_ she told herself. _Get it together. Get a fucking grip._

Taking a deep breath and blinking away the tears, Sonia looked at her cellphone's screen and noticed the battery icon flashing. _Fucking perfect. _She had a little less than ten percent of power left, so she had better make good use of it.

Sonia tapped her finger on the contacts list, her hands trembling. There was only one person who could get her out of this, and the last time they had spoken he had been furious with her, on the verge of homicidal.

_I guess I'm about to find out if he really loves me or not._

* * *

Trevor was in a good mood for a change. He was covered head to foot in his victim's blood, the man's tortured screams were still singing their sweet music in his ears, and at least one thing was right with the world.

He'd been non too pleased earlier, however, when he'd pulled up outside the address Lester had given him, seeing that big-ass, two-story house, the expensive sports car in the driveway, knowing that raping son of a bitch had been living well all this time when he should've been fucking _dead_.

Lorenzo Marinelli wasn't what he'd expected, either. He'd thought the man would be some big, ugly, muscular monster in his fifties, who would put up a vigorous fight and profusely deny any responsibility for what he'd done, making it that much more satisfying when Trevor erased him from existence. But he turned out to be some little, gray man in his mid to late sixties, whose get-up-and-go had got up and went long ago, a result of living under the crushing weight of guilt. Totally depressed, totally subdued, and a total fucking let down.

Trevor had thought he might shy away from or outright refuse to talk about the past, but Lorenzo had weirdly known why he was there, as if he'd been expecting or _wanting_ this vengeance to come, and had been annoyingly submissive, providing answers to every question Trevor threw at him; why he had raped her, how long it had been going on, so on and so forth.

After Sonia's folks had been murdered by some rival gangsters, Child Services had taken her for a few weeks before they dropped her into her Uncle Lorenzo's care, who'd been her only living relative in the States. They hadn't cared that he was unmarried, only that he had the means to provide for her, and Lorenzo had been rich back then as he was now. He had never met his niece prior to that, due to a falling out between Lorenzo and Sonia's father, and over her mother. Apparently, the three of them had grown up together, and Lorenzo had been crazy in love with Sonia's mother from the time they were teenagers, a fact he had kept secret up until the day his brother was to marry her. Lorenzo had cornered her, confessed, and kissed her. She'd told his brother, of course. There'd been a big fight and the brothers never spoke again.

Despite being strangers, Sonia and her uncle had grown close her first six months in his care. She had been only twelve then, working through the debilitating grief of losing her parents, and Lorenzo had provided her a strong shoulder to cry on and an ear to listen to her, despite taking the losses as hard as she had. It had been completely innocent for a while, but...

"Sonia looked so much like her mother," the man had confessed to Trevor. "Those same beautiful black eyes, same voice...she even had her big smile and ridiculous laugh, when I could get her to smile and laugh. I knew it was wrong, but I...I couldn't _help_ it. I wanted her."

Of course, Trevor was smart enough to see that for the complete horseshit it was. They always said they 'couldn't help it'; no matter who they were, they all had that same fucking excuse. Lorenzo hadn't wanted _her_, he'd wanted her mother, and Sonia had simply had the misfortune of looking too much like her. She'd been the perfect surrogate to live out his twisted little fantasies with. He could've helped it. He simply didn't _want_ to.

The raping started sometime after Sonia hit thirteen, which had been the age of her mother when Lorenzo fell in love with her. By then, Sonia had already blossomed into a young woman. Lorenzo had had enough sense to put her on birth control pills, so he didn't impregnate her with any inconvenient, mutant children. No one had raised any eyebrows at a thirteen-year-old needing contraception, mostly because Lorenzo had done a good job of making everyone believe Sonia was a rambunctious, sexually active young girl and he was the protective, loving uncle just looking out for her. That somehow made the whole thing that much more fucked up.

Sonia had fought him for a while, but being a thirteen-year-old who probably weighed ninety pounds soaking wet, there wasn't much she could do against a grown man who had a hundred plus pounds on her. Except there was. She could have grabbed a knife from the kitchen and plunged it into his fucking heart, but oh no, she had to have her precious fucking 'principles', for all the good they had done her. Perhaps it wouldn't have turned out this way if her dumbass parents had _fully_ explained the values they had wanted her to have.

Her moments of defiance often earned her a ticket to the closet, where Lorenzo would make her stay until she had started feeling more 'cooperative'. He also locked her away in there when he was finished with her so she wouldn't run off, until he was certain the idea had gone out of her head. He had also started drinking then, because, according to him, 'sometimes the alcohol numbed the pain of what I did, the guilt in knowing it was wrong but unable to help myself'.

"You gimme that fuckin' excuse _one more time_," Trevor had warned him. "You're gonna find out first hand what it's like to be raped." Of course, he had intended for that to happen either way, to make the bastard suffer the way he'd made her suffer, the way Trevor himself had suffered.

Lorenzo never made _any_ excuse again.

Sometimes he kept her in that closet because he was too ashamed to face her, and would sit there at the door, sobbing and apologizing, only to repeat the despicable act again. And again.

Then he'd fucked up. In his drunkenness, he'd forgotten to lock her up. It had probably been inevitable; intoxication and forgetfulness went hand in hand. She had run off in the middle of the night, and he'd never seen her again. He didn't bother trying to find her, nor had he tried going on the lam when he'd feared she'd turn him in to the police. By then the guilt was too deep for him to care. But the cops had never come for him.

"I always wondered why they didn't," Lorenzo had said. "Why didn't she turn me in?"

"You don't get to ask questions," Trevor had spat at him. "You don't get any answers. The only thing you're gonna get is _exactly_ what you fucking deserve."

Lorenzo had meekly accepted that, then he'd had taken Trevor upstairs to show him something, something that 'will never make up for what I did, but I want her to have it anyway,' he'd said.

Trevor had half expected it to be some kind of trick, Lorenzo's last-ditch effort to avoid his fate, until he found himself standing in Sonia's childhood bedroom, where everything was pink and purple and sweet and, at one, short time, innocent. It had remained strangely untouched for twenty years. The bed was still unmade and there was a poster of Journey frontman Steve Perry hanging above it, in concert pose. There were books and dolls and girlish things scattered around the floor among the pink and purple clothes she'd worn as a ruined teen. There were more books than anything else, though. Apparently, teen Sonia had liked to read science fiction and anything related to astronomy. Given how obsessed she'd always been with the goddamn stars, Trevor wasn't surprised.

It was only later that he truly understood that obsession.

There'd also been a little chest-of-drawers in the room, pushed up against the wall near the closet, covered in old, faded stickers of—what else—stars and planets. On top of it there was a musical jewelery box, a purple hairbrush, a flowery framed photo of what he assumed was kid Sonia and her parents(and yes, she _was_ the spitting image of her mother) standing outside the Lil' Probe Inn, and some other girly odds and ends, all tidy compared to the rest of the room. There was an article of clothing too. A pair of tiny purple underwear patterned with little pink flowers, torn and a little blood-stained, hanging there off the edge of the vanity mirror like a goddamn _trophy_.

Trevor had lost all sense of time after that. It was weird. Up until that point, his anger had been quietly simmering just below boiling point. He'd actually thought he might not blow his stack after all. Perhaps all Lorenzo had told him hadn't sunk in yet, but when he'd seen that blood on those little torn underwear, he lost it, and not even the Good Lord above could've stopped him.

He might've been at Lorenzo for a couple of minutes or a couple of hours, but by the time the red mist had finally lifted, the man was literally in pieces all over the carpet of Sonia's bedroom and he was soaked in his blood. He'd somehow gotten hold of a cleaver—when _that_ had happened_,_ he still had no clue. The whole thing had been a red-stained whirlwind, as it usually was when he lost himself to the rage. All he really remembered of it now was the screaming and the begging and the stench when the guy shit and pissed himself. And the faces that had obscured Lorenzo's. Faces from his past, faces he _hated, _faces of men he wanted to kill.

He had laughed at the grisly sight. The fuzz were going to have a hell of a time cleaning up the gore and collecting all the body parts. He'd thought about wrapping up the man's severed cock and presenting it to Sonia as a souvenir or a trophy of her own, but he'd recalled her saying how she never wanted to see him again so he surmised she probably wouldn't want to see any _part_ of him again, either. Especially _that _part of him.

Trevor smiled now at the still fresh memory, as he drove back to the casino. Even if he hadn't made Lorenzo suffer the way he had _wanted_ to, the man _had_ at least suffered and paid for his crime. It still made him feel good, energized, clear-headed. He would've been lying if he'd said he'd dealt this revenge solely for her. It was for himself as well; Lorenzo had played proxy for his own fucked up parade of molesting father figures. Still, he could not recall a time when he'd ever sought vengeance for anyone else, mostly because he didn't give a fuck about anyone else, let alone their suffering. With the exception of Patricia, and now her.

It was funny. In some small way, Sonia reminded him of her; she accepted him for who he was and understood him better than most. But in many ways, she was totally different from _any_ of the women that had come and gone from his life, and it wasn't just her personality. She made him _feel_ different, and the way he felt about _her_ was different. It was bigger, _fiercer_. And he would also be lying if he said that didn't scare him just a little. Maybe more than a little. Maybe kind of a lot. Because, yes, when you give a shit about something, you have something to lose. She wasn't the only one terrified of that.

Beside him on the passenger seat there was a framed photo, a blood-stained duffel bag, and an equally blood-stained zip-lock bag. The framed photo was the one he'd noticed on Sonia's dresser and thought she might like to have it back. In the duffel bag(which he'd found on the floor after butchering Lorenzo) was what Lorenzo had taken him up to Sonia's room to show him. It was cold hard cash, which he had counted prior to leaving the house. There was a little over three hundred thousand, pocket change by Trevor's standards, but it was enough to have her sitting pretty for a while, assuming she would accept it. The zip-lock bag contained a bunch of adhesive, glow-in-the-dark stars. He'd found them on the ceiling of her bedroom. She'd always had this weird love for the stars that he'd never quite understood, until he noticed how those little fake ones were clustered mostly over the bed she had been raped in countless times. The stars were important, a space she could mentally escape to when Lorenzo came for her. It was just a kid's effort to block out the torment, keep from going insane. And while he didn't think she really needed those fake stars anymore, he'd decided she should have them anyway. A reminder that shit had been put right, a reminder of how much he truly fucking loved her with every bit of his rotten, black heart.

His cellphone rang.

Trevor pulled it from his pocket, grinned, answered. "Funny you should call, sunshine. I was _just_ thinking about you."

* * *

**Another A/N:** I can see Trevor giving a body part to someone as a souvenir. Yep. SMH.

Last thing, you might have come across weird spots that don't make sense/seem like there's something missing. Apparently, small portions of the chapter are getting eaten when I upload into the doc manager. Don't know what's causing it. I do a run through of the chapter for mistakes before I upload, but when you've been looking at the same words for a week, they tend to blur together and you end up missing something. So, yeah, if there's mistakes like that, sorry and I'll try to fix them asap.


	23. Chapter 22: The Voice

**Chapter Twenty-Two: The Voice **

* * *

Sonia sighed when the call clicked over and she heard that gruff and vaguely accented voice say, "Funny you should call, sunshine. I was _just_ thinking about you." Fuck Steve Perry. _That_ was the sweetest-sounding voice in all the world.

She spoke quickly, perhaps too quickly, and she could hear the fear in her voice. Certainly he would too, but this was no time to worry about her pride. "Trevor, I seem to have gotten myself into a bit of a situation...a bit of a bad situation. Okay, a _very_ bad situation. And I know I said I didn't need you to protect me and everything, but I'm _literally_ being driven to my death and I can't do shit about it. So, if you could, you know, _save me_, that'd be great."

"Whoa, whoa, _slow down_," he said, his voice altering to that beastly growl he usually reserved for when he was pissed off. "What're you talking about? What the fuck happened?"

Sonia pulled her phone back to check the battery power. Eight percent. She pressed it to her ear again and said, "Well, long story short, the whole kidnapping Joe thing went south. I got knocked out and woke up in the trunk of a car. And I'm pretty certain I'm being taken to what's left of Lupo's crew. I'm sure you can figure out what they're gonna do to me."

The other end of the line got real quiet, and for one horrible moment Sonia thought he'd decided she was on her own and had hung up on her. "Are you still there?"

"You tried to kidnap him without me? What the _fuck_ were you thinking!?" Trevor yelled. "Why didn't you call me when you were ready to move on this prick?"

"_Really_ not the time to get into this, Trevor. I've got about eight percent of battery power left on my phone."

"What do you expect me to fucking do, when you're in the trunk of a car you can't identify, headed to fuck knows where? Goddammit, Sonia! _You should've fucking called me_!"

Sonia heard a weird little quiver in his voice, but wasn't sure what it was. "_Listen_, I know where I am. Kind of. I busted out the right taillight, so I can see out the back a little bit. I think we're heading westbound on the Julius Thruway."

"And there's only a couple thousand fucking cars driving on the Thruway at eight o'clock on a Friday night! That doesn't fucking help me!"

"Stop yelling at me! Jesus God, it ain't like I did this on purpose!"

"That's exactly what you fucking did! You _intentionally_ tried to kidnap that prick without me! The whole thing blows up in your face and _now_ you want my help? Fuck you!"

The line went dead.

Sonia pulled her phone back, thinking the connection had been lost or the battery had died, but it wasn't the connection or the battery. He had hung up on her.

"No!" she yelled at her phone in dismay. "No! You can't do this!"

Sonia tried calling him back, but it only rang a few times before going into voicemail. She tried three more times with the same result.

She gripped the phone hard, holding it in front of her face. The battery icon was still blinking. Five percent left. "You don't understand!" she yelled at the phone, as if Trevor might somehow hear her. "It wasn't like that! Call back! _Please_!"

But her phone remained silent and Sonia felt panic bubbling up inside her again.

"Please, don't do this, don't do this to me, I need you..._don't let me die_!" She dropped her cellphone, covered her face, and sobbed. "How can you do this to me?" She clenched her hands into fists, pressing them against her forehead. Anger welled up under the despair. How could he just abandon her like this? How could he, when he'd said... "You said you loved me! You lying bastard!" Sonia beat her fists against the underside of the trunk. "_You said you loved me_!"

Soon, she felt the car slowing down and knew she was getting closer to her destination, closer to her death. She still had her switchblade, but it would do her no good against a bunch of men with guns.

As the car began to roll to a stop, Sonia's cellphone rang. It was him. She didn't feel any relief, only the anger, anger that bordered on rage. There was only four percent of the battery left, not that it mattered now. She answered anyway, wanting nothing more than to ream his ass.

"You cocksucking piece of shit! You better _hope_ I die, because if I don't, I'm gonna hunt you down, you lying, traitorous fuck, and strangle you with your own fucking intestines! I'm gonna-"

"Okay, I've had time to _think_," Trevor cut into her outburst. "And I got an idea-"

"It's too late!"

"What?" There was that weird little tremor in his voice again. What _was_ that? "No, the _fuck_ it is."

"The car's _stopped_. I've reached my second-to-last destination." She laughed without humor. "Next stop: Hell! I'll save _you_ a fucking seat!"

"You gotta give me something, sunshine." That mysterious tremor got stronger. "Anything; a landmark, street sign, the name of a fucking building."

Sonia knew what that tremor was now; she'd heard it in her own voice earlier, when she had asked for his help. It was fear. He was afraid. Trevor Philips was fucking afraid.

_Good. Bastard. Fucking bastard._

"Give me something!" he said again. It almost sounded like a plea this time.

Sonia heard and felt the engine cut off, and with it went the loud music the driver had been playing to drown her out earlier. She looked out the hole where the taillight used to be. All she saw was desert, and too much of it; no landmarks, no buildings, and definitely no street signs, nothing to that could help her pinpoint her exact location. She was fucked.

"You want something, Trevor?" Sonia said. The anger was gone now, leaving just the fear. "All I got is desert. _Miles_ of fucking desert." She heard a car door open and close, and decided to give him something else, because some part of her was certain she would never get another chance to. "And I want you to know something: I love you." A rattling sound came from outside the trunk. "Yeah, I said it. _I love you_, you fucking asshole."

Trevor said something, but Sonia didn't hear it as she stood her cellphone on its side and pushed it up against the side of trunk, hiding it and the light emitting from its screen. She grasped her switchblade just as the trunk lid opened.

A man peered down at her, one she didn't recognize, but he wore the maroon polo and khaki pants of a casino security guard.

Sonia moved quick as the devil, thrusting her knife at his side. She felt the blade rip through fabric and sink into flesh, and she smiled, hoping she got a kidney.

The man shouted in pain and staggered back, the blade pulling from his flesh. Blood seeped through his maroon shirt as he dropped a hand down to the wound and pressed against it. His other hand reached for the pistol holstered on his hip.

Sonia threw her aching legs over the side of the trunk. The moment she put weight on them, her calf muscles cramped and her knees unhinged. She fell in the sand, but still kept her grip on her switchblade. _Fucking legs. Work! _But they were so stiff she couldn't get them under her to pick herself up in time.

"Hey, what the fuck's she doing untied!? You fucking tied her up, right!?"

Sonia and the security guard looked toward this new voice. A man of average height and build strode over to them, pistol in hand, dressed in a white wifebeater, a pair of jeans, and snakeskin cowboy boots. He had a handsome face full of sharp angles, short brown hair that looked like it hadn't seen a comb in a couple of days, and his skin was tanned to a dark bronze. Behind him, two other men followed, both of them armed.

Sonia knew him. Jack Valle, consigliere to the Lupo family, a position that had allowed him to remain a free man. The consigliere was nothing more than an adviser, and although it was a respected and somewhat legendary position, it was not part of the family hierarchy, therefore he had never participated in any of the crimes that had gotten Lupo and most of his capos incarcerated.

"Yeah, she was tied up," the security guard groused, wincing as he looked down at the blood dribbling from his hand. "Bitch had a knife on her, musta cut herself loose."

"It didn't cross your tiny fucking mind to search her for weapons!?" Jack shouted, raising his gun and aiming it at Sonia.

"Look, I'm just the fucking driver! It was those other dumbfucks who didn't search her!" The man pressed his hand against his wound again and groaned. "You gonna help me out here? I'm fucking bleeding everywhere."

Jack stared at him, his face blank as fresh paper. "Sure, I'll help you." Then he turned his gun on him and shot him—bang, right through the forehead. "Fucking idiot."

The security guard dropped dead and Sonia rose and lunged at Jack with her switchblade, but her legs cramped again and she stumbled back to her knees as Jack whipped his aim back on her.

Behind Jack and his men, Sonia noticed the ragged remains of a tiny town that looked old as sin itself. It was a good deal smaller than Sandy Shores, could hardly even be called a town, and most of its buildings had collapsed under the weight of time, nothing more than heaps of sun-bleached and sand-beaten wood. The few that remained standing were colorless and gloomy on the outside and dark and dead on the inside, ghosts of the Old West that refused to vanish. At the south end of the dirt road that split the town in two stood a small, white chapel that had miraculously survived the passage of time and the harsh climate. On the roof there was a brief belfry with a small bronze bell encased inside it, which probably hadn't been rung in aeons. On the left side of the chapel, surrounded by a thin wrought-iron fence, grim and crooked tombstones poked up from the ground like rotting teeth in an old man's mouth.

Sonia knew this place too. Her parents had brought her out here a long time ago, just for fun; one of the few family trips they had taken. She remembered it was called Pueblo Rojo, and it was one of the three ghost towns in the Venturas desert.

She drew in a deep breath and yelled out the name of the town, twice, hoping her cellphone hadn't already died, hoping Trevor was still on the other end, listening. He probably wouldn't know what she was screaming, not at first, but he was intelligent and resourceful enough; he would figure it out.

Jack stepped toward her, eyes narrowed, gun still trained on her. "What the fuck're you doing? And put that knife on the ground. Now!"

"I'd rather stick it in your fucking throat," Sonia spat.

Jack grinned at her and squeezed the trigger on his pistol.

The bullet smacked through the rust-eaten rear end of the car that had brought her here, just inches from her head. Sonia tried not to flinch, but flinching was just a natural, knee jerk reaction to almost having your head blown off; it couldn't be helped, no matter how much you wanted to help it.

"Now, are you gonna put the knife down or am I gonna have to put a bullet in _you_?"

It was a tough decision to make—keep her knife and take matters into her own hands, despite the impossible odds of her coming out of this alive or put it down, hope Trevor had heard her, and stall to give him time to get there?

Sonia made her decision. She put the knife down.

* * *

Trevor tried not to think about the gunshot he'd heard before her cellphone went dead or what it might mean. He focused on what she'd yelled. It had been muffled, but clear enough for him to make out the words: _Pueblo rojo. _He knew some Spanish—enough to get by on, at least—and if he remembered correctly _pueblo _meant village and _rojo_ was the color red. Red village? That could mean anything; it might be the name of a restaurant or a bar or a town, or all three. The only thing he knew for certain was that it wasn't in the city. _All I got is desert_, she'd said. _Miles of it. _That would help narrow down the search if there were multiple _pueblos rojos._

Steering his speeding vehicle with one hand, Trevor used his other to access the GPS app on his cellphone, quickly punching in _Pueblo Rojo_ in the destination box. Sure enough, it brought up four different locations. Three of them had addresses in Las Venturas, and the last, which gave no address at all, was located in the desert. There was a little information bubble next to it that claimed it was a Historical Site, one of three surviving ghost towns. It seemed a reasonable place for any sensible killer to take their intended victim; doubtful any tourists were going to visit when it was edging on night, so it would be secluded, and it was far enough away that no one would hear the victim's screams.

Trevor highlighted the location and a yellow line popped up on the map, showing him the way from his current location. He was thirty miles and fifteen minutes out from it, and that was time he didn't have, time _she _didn't have...unless those bastards decided to have some fun with her first. Maybe they would; he _hoped_ they would. It was shitty, it was fucking selfish, but he'd rather she be beaten and raped than killed. Wounds could heal, but no one ever recovered from death. He could not, _would not_, lose her as he had lost everything else.

Trevor dropped his cellphone in the center cup holder and looked up through the windshield just in time to see the taillights of a big rig closing in quick. He'd been so focused on finding the place and getting directions that he forgot to keep one eye on the road. His breath caught in his throat as he smashed a foot down on the brake pedal, but he was going too fast and stopped too late.

He had time to think: _Idiot, idiot, idiot. _Then came the deafening, dismaying crash of crunching metal and shattering glass, and the _foomph_ of the airbag as it deployed in his face. Firecrackers of pain burst through his nose and chest as the inflated, plastic bag shoved him back into the seat. His head banged off the headrest, adding headache and whiplash to his list of hurts. Somewhere behind him, car horns blared out in protest. Tires squealed like a stuck pig, then there was that metallic crash again as the idiot behind him rear-ended him. Trevor was thrown forward for a second time, bracing his hands against the steering wheel.

"Fucking._..fuck_," he groaned unhappily. He could taste the coppery flavor of blood at the back of his throat and on his lips, felt its slick warmth dribbling from his nose. He surmised it was probably broken, but didn't commit the time to confirm that.

Through the broken windshield, Trevor noticed smoke seeping out from under the hood of his car, which had bent up into a tent-like shape during the first crash. The engine had also stopped running. He didn't bother checking to see if it would, either. Smoke coming from the engine was never a good thing, and even if it_ did_ run, he would never get it out from where it was now firmly wedged between the big rig and the sports car behind him.

A cruel, pessimistic voice, which was ever lurking at the back of his mind and always sounded uncannily like his dear old mother, came to the fore. _You're not gonna save her, you useless idiot. You can't even use your goddamn phone and watch the road at the same time._

Trevor ignored it as he stuffed the little zip-lock baggie full of fake stars and the framed photo of Sonia and her parents in that duffel bag full of money sitting on the passenger seat, then he grabbed his cellphone and threw open the door. He squeezed out from between the airbag and the seat, then reached back in for the duffel bag. He glanced around as he slung the strap over his shoulder so the big, black canvas bag rested against his hip. The driver of the big rig stood just outside the door of the truck's cab, on his cellphone—probably talking to the trucking company's lawyer. The other driver stood and gaped at the front end of his dark blue sports car, where it was crammed against the back of Trevor's stolen ride, hands raised to the back of his head, face full of angry disbelief.

"Look at this shit, man!" he huffed. "This is ridiculous; I _literally_ just bought this car, like two hours ago!" The man moved his hands from his head and held them out to his damaged car, looking at Trevor as if he expected him to pull a magic wand out of his ass and abracadabra away the damage. "My wife's gonna kill me!"

Trevor considered saving his wife the trouble and doing it himself, but pulling out a gun and blowing the man's brains out would likely cause a panic and scare off the other drivers. He needed to jack another car, and the wreck had already cost him precious time. Every minute that passed, the closer Sonia got to her death.

He walked away from the man, heading down past the damaged vehicles. His choice of functional ones began to pile up in the accident lane. The rest of the thruway's evening traffic started to slow to a crawl as drivers and their passengers rubbernecked the wreck.

"Hey, where're you going, man?" the sports car driver called after Trevor. He jumped after him and caught his elbow. Big mistake. "You can't just walk away from an accident! We gotta exchange information, and you look like you need an ambulance."

Trevor fought another itch to feed him hot lead. He wheeled around and fed him a fist instead. "Fuck off! I don't got time for your crap!"

The driver staggered back from the blow, hands going up to his mouth, his eyes as big as saucers. The man had the goddamn nerve to stare at him like he'd just set fire to his dog, rather than punching him in the mouth. Did the idiot not fucking realize how easy he'd just gotten off? How _lucky_ he was to still be breathing? Some people.

Trevor scoffed, turned his back on the man, and strode up to the driver's side of the car closest to him, a bright red, older model Sentinel. The driver, a pimply youth who barely looked legal to operate a car, stared at him through the window, mouth open. Trevor didn't bother to lift the door handle, just in case it happened to be locked(and the way his luck was going, it would be). He used the same fist he'd punched the other driver with, smashing it through the window with all the force he could muster. The young man inside let out a startled yelp and leaned away into the passenger seat, covering his face with his hands as the glass shattered.

Trevor reached in to hit the door lock switch. His hand was cut up, bleeding, and throbbing like a motherfucker, but it hardly mattered when most everything else from the waist up was injured. He pulled open the door, grabbed the youngster, and threw him on the pavement.

Trevor was behind the steering wheel and on his way before the kid even picked himself up from the ground.

Someone would likely call the cops on him, but if all went the way it was supposed to, he would be out in the desert before any cops noticed him, and they likely wouldn't think to look for a stolen vehicle out there.

But all did not go the way it was supposed to.

As Trevor sped northbound on the Julius Thruway, the car's engine began to sputter and convulse, so violently it rattled the dashboard. Then it just died and the Sentinel steadily slowed to a stop in the middle of the busy thruway. Above the odometer, the Check Engine light blinked on. Well, no shit.

Cursing, Trevor turned the key to the off position, waited a second or two, then started the engine again. It coughed and coughed, but refused to turn over. He tried it again, this time pumping the gas pedal with his foot. He did _not_ have _time_ for this. "Fucking _start_, you piece of shit!"

Nothing. Nada. Zippo. The engine was as dead as former FIB douchebag Steve Haines.

And that defeatist voice whispered again,_ You're not gonna save her._

"Arrrghh!"

Trevor grabbed the duffel bag off the passenger seat and got out, ignoring the honking horns and the numerous middle fingers thrown up at him. The world was full of assholes; that was no news to him.

A sedan had come to a stop behind the dead Sentinel, waiting for traffic to clear so it could change lanes and get on its way. Patience gone, Trevor yanked his pistol from the waist of his jeans, pointed it at the driver as he approached the car, and bellowed, "_Get the fuck out now_!"

The wide-eyed driver ducked and reversed his car. He didn't get far. Trevor unloaded three bullets into the windshield. Blood spattered the cracked glass.

Once Trevor removed the body and was seated behind the steering wheel of yet _another_ new car, he stamped down on the gas pedal and kept it nailed to the floor. Five minutes later, he was flying up the I-66 on ramp, now heading westbound toward the desert, where just a sliver of sun sat over the horizon. In the east, the stars would just be waking up with the night. Trevor couldn't see them as he drove into the dying sunlight, but he wondered if she could, if she would escape to them if those bastards started raping her.

The voice was laughing at him now._ Give it up, asshole. You're not gonna save her. _

Trevor shook his head hard, earning a painful protest from the strained muscles in his neck. He stuck a mental icepick into that defeatist voice. They weren't going to rape her; they weren't going to do _shit_, because he would get to her before they could. He was going to save her.

"I'm comin', sunshine," he muttered to himself. "I'm-"

A muffled pop cut him off. The car sank down on the passenger side and veered wildly. Trevor gripped the steering wheel hard and tried to fight the car back on course, but it was already swerving out of control, tires screeching across the pavement. The car skidded off the road, struck a speed limit sign hard enough to snap it from the ground and send it flying. Then the car plunged into a ditch, where it came to rest.

For a moment, Trevor did nothing but sit there and stare out the windshield, gripping the steering wheel so tight his knuckles paled, breathing hard, wondering how the fuck he'd gotten a flat tire and why the fuck it had to happen _now_. He felt pressure in the center of his forehead that quickly spread to his temples and behind his eyes, felt every muscle in his body clench up, heard the thunderclap of his pulse, saw the red creeping into the edges of his vision, tasted metal, all telltale signs that he was seconds from losing his shit.

The instinctive human need to protect what he loved had him making a mental lunging grasp for stability, knowing that if he lost control he would also lose_ time. _Only he was grasping at a ghost, and he knew it. His mental fingers closed over mental air, then the red whirlwind sucked him in.

When the rage had passed, Trevor found himself standing outside the car, gripping the pole of the speed limit sign that had gotten knocked from its place on the side of the road. He'd given the car a good thrashing with it; the body had countless dents, most of them deep, and all the windows were smashed. He'd also knocked off the side mirrors and had somehow flattened another tire.

_You feel better now you've had your little tantrum? _that voice in his head heckled, the one that sounded weirdly like his mother. _How much time did it cost you, huh? You dumbass. They're probably forcing their little cocks in her right now. Or maybe some of 'ems got big cocks, big enough to split her in half._

Trevor flinched. The sign dropped from his fingers. "I've got _plenty_ of time. I can save her; I fucking _will_."

_You couldn't save a kitten from drowning in a bathtub. You're useless, no good to anybody. _

He clapped his hands over his ears as if it were enough to silence that voice. "Ugh...leave me alone."

_You are alone, and you'll always be alone._

A whine tore from his throat. "No...no, you're wrong. You're _wrong_!"

Trevor opened the car door and got in behind the steering wheel. It would slow him down, but he could still drive with two flat tires. He would drive it on all four fucking rims, if that's what it came down to. He didn't have a choice in the matter. This late in the day, there weren't many people this far out in the desert. He hadn't passed many cars coming out here, and there was no time to wait for the odd one to show up.

The engine was still running, so Trevor pulled the gearstick into drive and pushed down on the accelerator. The car slid forward a little, but did no more than that. He worked with it for a moment, twisting the steering wheel this and that as he kept feeding the car gas, but the tires just weren't getting enough traction. He tried putting it in reverse, but that didn't work either.

_You see? Totally useless. Can't even get a car out of a ditch. Give it up. You're not gonna save her. She's already dead. _

Trevor refused to accept that. He reached down along the left side of the seat and pulled the trunk lever. Maybe if he changed one of the tires-

_Beaten and raped and killed, and it's all _your_ fault._

He wasn't listening; he refused to listen to this shit.

Trevor exited the car and went around to the trunk, lifting the lid. The trunk was empty.

_Maybe that's for the best. She was lying when she said she loved you. Just trying to fill your head with pretty little lies so you'll drag your dumbass out here to save her, that's all it is._

He gritted his teeth and lifted the mat at the bottom, which usually covered a niche where the spare tire was kept at. Nothing, just a big, round empty hole.

_And you know that. Look at you. Who in their right fucking mind would ever love you? You're just a monster, and she knows it—how many times has she said it? And _no one_ loves a monster._

"Shut up!" Trevor snapped at that voice as he slammed the trunk lid closed.

But that goddamn voice was merciless. _Face it, Trevor. You're meant to be alone. You _deserve_ to be alone. You're worthless, good for nothing, a fucking waste of life. You should've been aborted-_

"Shut up! _Shut up_!" His angry, despairing voice echoed through the desert. The sound of him banging his forehead down on the trunk, hard and repeatedly, soon joined. "Fuck off! Get the fuck outta my head!"

The self-inflicted violence aggravated the previous injuries to his head and neck, but it did what he needed it to do. It shut up the voice. It would come back; it _always_ came back, but for now...blessed silence.

Trevor leaned against the trunk and ignored the trickle of blood dripping down the bridge of his nose as he pulled his cellphone from his pocket. He half expected to find the battery had died, because that was just the way his luck was going right now. The battery hadn't died, however. When the screen came on, he saw the GPS map had updated to show his current location. He memorized the directions, then crammed the phone back into his pants pocket.

Three miles to Pueblo Rojo. Three miles to cover on foot. He could do it, no problemo. He'd used up the last of his personal meth stash just before dealing with Lorenzo and it was still working through his system. The drug was one of few things in this world he trusted; it never failed him.

Trevor made a mental note to come back for the duffel bag later, then patted down his person to confirm his pistol was still tucked in the waist of his jeans and the extra magazine was still in his back pocket—check and check.

He faced the dark expanse of desert to the west and broke into a run.

* * *

Unlike most ghost towns, Pueblo Rojo wasn't quiet or deserted.

Half way down the little unpaved road that led to it, Trevor saw the light first, an orange glow coming from inside some building he couldn't quite make out from this distance. As he got closer, he began to hear the shouts; incoherent but definitely female.

Three miles of nonstop running had left the muscles in his legs _screaming—_loath as he was to admit it, he wasn't as young as he used to be, and though the meth had given him a hell of an energy boost, no amount of it could reverse the effects age had already made on his body—but he forced himself through that final stretch into the small, dilapidated town.

Every panting breath he took seemed to burn on its way in and his heart was drumming so hard and fast it hurt his chest. For a second there, he wondered if this was it, if this was the moment his mistreated heart finally decided it had had enough abuse and called it quits, killing him right there, as he's only steps away from rescuing her. Wouldn't have fucking surprised him in the slightest.

But his ticker went on ticking.

Trevor ran past an old, rusty Washington parked along the side of the road. If there'd been even a shred of doubt that he was in the wrong place, there wasn't now. The sedan's right taillight was gone; he recalled Sonia saying she'd busted it out.

That orange light he'd seen earlier came from an old chapel at the ass end of the dirt road. It glowed and flickered through the broken stained glass windows in the big, wooden double doors.

Trevor drew his pistol as he closed in on them, and a voice rose from inside the place.

"_Get your fucking hands off me_!" That was her; he knew that shrieky little pissed off voice anywhere, as distinctive as her strangled goose laugh. "_You're all gonna be fucking sorry! Mark my fucking words, death is coming for you!_"

Though he could hear her terror under the fury, he couldn't help a smile. Perhaps it was mere coincidence, but he couldn't have asked for a better cue.

Trevor came up the chapel's creaky, wooden steps, kicked his way through the big doors, and marched inside.

A short aisle, flanked by three rows of pews on each side, stretched from the doors to the altar, where three iron-caged lanterns sat, giving off their orange glow. On the wall behind the altar, a wooden, crucified Jesus Christ stared mournfully down at the four people who stood in front of the altar, casting long shadows up the aisle. One of them was Sonia, her face so bruised and bloody it was almost unrecognizable. A man stood behind her, holding her arms back as a second guy tuned her up. A third stood off to the side, watching. They had probably been taking turns at it. The fucking cunts.

Every last one of them stopped what they were doing to turn their attention to the door, and all but Sonia appeared confused by Trevor's presence.

The guy standing off to the side—and the only one armed at the moment, Trevor noticed—rose his gun and spoke his last words on earth. "Who the fuck're you?"

Trevor grinned his gruesome grin and leveled his pistol on him. "The Grim fucking Reaper."

His gun went off the same time as the man's did, but it was the man who got the bullet, head jerking back a little and ejecting a ribbon of blood before his body dropped and his gun clattered on the stone floor.

"Missed me, motherfucker," Trevor laughed as he brought his aim around on his next target, who was in the midst of reaching for his gun. The man's fingers wrapped around the grip, but that's as far as he got. Boom—head shot.

The last guy, who stood behind Sonia and had probably had his gun to her head the whole time, spoke up, "Put the gun down, asshole, or I'll fucking kill her!"

Trevor felt that pressure at the center of his forehead again, tasted metal at the back of his throat, saw the red creeping into his vision. No, not again. This couldn't happen now. This was not a knife to her throat, which could be evaded easily enough, as she had proven once before. This was a gun to her head, where the slightest provocation or pressure on the trigger would take her from him. This wasn't a race against time or not knowing if he was already too late. This was her standing right in front of him, alive. This was him knowing that he was the only thing in this world that could keep it that way, but only if he could keep his head.

"_You_ put _your_ fucking gun down, and maybe I'll let you walk out of here," he said, his voice trembling. Not from any emotion, but from the sheer willpower it took to restrain himself. He was holding on by a thin thread. A brittle, thin thread.

"I'm supposed to put my gun down on a _maybe_? You think I'm fucking stupid?"

_You are if you think I'm letting you fucking walk out of here at all. _But he said, "I think you wanna live, and I think you're gonna do what have to to make sure you do." He couldn't get a clear shot on the guy. The only part of the man that was exposed was his gun hand. The rest of him was shielded by her. Shooting his gun hand was way too risky.

"Well, you ain't fucking wrong, pal," the man said, and as he did, Sonia moved her legs.

She hadn't so much as twitched since he'd come through the door. Now she was widening her stance, and Trevor understood why. Doing so exposed the man's legs between hers, giving him something else to shoot. Putting a bullet in his shin would bring him down, but the risk of the man's gun going off and killing her was still there. Maybe a little less risky than if he shot him in the hand. Maybe. Fuck.

"I want a guarantee I get out of this alive," the man went on. "So we're gonna do this _my_ way. I'm gonna walk out this door, and she's coming with me. Insurance, you see?"

"You sure?" Trevor asked. It was directed at her. He needed the confirmation, to know she understood the risk too.

Sonia gave him a nod.

"Yeah, I'm fucking su-" the man started to say, but Trevor's pistol cut him off.

His leg unhinged and in that space of a second when he started to drop to the floor, his gun went off. Sonia let out a gasp as her head jerked to one side, then she was falling too, blood streaming down her face from the right side of her head.

"_No_! Fuck!" Trevor lunged, both arms locking around her before she crashed to the floor. He held her tight against his chest and he knew by the feel of her that she was gone. She was limp, too limp. This wasn't supposed to happen. Yes, he'd known it could, potentially, but it wasn't _supposed_ to. He was supposed to save her, so they could go on and destroy his enemies together, so they could be together. They were _supposed_ to be together; it was meant to be, written in her fucking stars. Why was this happening? Jesus Christ, why the fuck was this happening? It was so fucking unfair.

_You see? You're meant to be alone._

A wail of despair and fury tore through him, and that thin, brittle thread he had been holding on by snapped.

Still clutching Sonia against him, unable to let go, Trevor turned his pistol on the groaning man sitting on the stone floor, holding his bleeding shin. "_You fucking motherfucker!_"

The man's eyes widened as he scrambled for his gun. A bullet struck him through the chest, then another and another. Trevor unloaded on him, emptying the magazine—some twenty odd bullets penetrated the murdering bastard's body.

When that whirlwind of rage released him, he registered that the limp body he held against him was no longer limp, but tense and clinging to him. When he looked down at her, she looked back up at him with a somewhat dazed expression. Yet Trevor could not believe it. He pressed his fingers against the side of her neck, just below the line of her jaw. A pulse. A fucking pulse. When she groaned and started to raise a hand to her head, he caught it in his own and squeezed her fingers, just to make sure this was real and not a fucking hallucination. It wouldn't have been the first time he'd hallucinated, either; sleep deprivation tended to have that effect, and he couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. But her fingers squeezed back and relief poured through him, so potent it made him dizzy.

"You're covered in blood," Sonia said, staring at his shirt. "Dried blood." She sounded confused.

Yes, her raping bastard of an uncle's blood, but fuck that. It wasn't important right now. Trevor wrapped both arms around her and crushed her against his chest, squeezing a pained gasp out of her. "How the fuck are you still alive? His gun went off, the blood...I thought...you _felt_ dead."

"I don't know...it stunned me. I think I'm still kinda stunned."

"Don't you ever fucking scare me like that again. You hear me?" He squeezed her tighter, buried his face in her hair. "I'll fucking kill you."

Sonia let out a quiet groan. "This hug is nice and all, but it really hurts. Can you...?"

"No, I fucking _can't_. Just deal with it, okay? Just let me hold you."

And she did. She even held him back, her arms locked tight around his midsection, her cheek pressed against his chest. They stood there like that for a long time, and Trevor savored every second of it; the weight of her in his arms—_living_ weight—and the warmth of her body and the scent of her, a not unpleasant combination of sweat, dirt, blood, and cheap motel soap.

At last, he released her, pulled her back by her shoulders. He took her chin in his hand and turned her face to the side gently, so that he could inspect the wound on her head where the bullet had winged her. He had to part her hair to get a better look at it, and she let out a hiss of pain.

"Bad?" she asked.

It was three and a half inches long and deep, but he didn't think it would need to be stitched up. "I can't see your brains, so I think you're good."

"I don't _feel_ good. Actually, I feel like I'm gonna throw up or pass out. Maybe both."

Trevor took her by the elbow. "C'mon, we'll go back to the motel and I'll kiss all your booboos better."

That got her to laughing for a minute, then she grimaced and clutched at her side. "Shit. Don't make me laugh."

"Wasn't supposed to be funny, sunshine," he said, a no-bullshit look on his face.

Sonia retrieved her cellphone from the trunk of the Washington and Trevor drove them out of the dead little town in it. He stopped three miles out, pulling off the road behind his previous car, where it was still sitting in the ditch. The duffel bag was still inside, sitting on the passenger seat. He put it in the backseat of the Washington, then they were off to the motel.

Halfway there, Sonia reached over and grabbed his hand. "Thank you for coming for me, for saving my life."

Trevor only nodded. Then, after a minute or two of silence, he asked the question that had been eating away at him since she'd said those three little words—those three _big_ words. "Do you really love me?"

"When you're trapped inside a trunk, being chauffeured to your death, you really get to thinking, you know? You think about all the shit you're gonna miss, all the shit you're never gonna get to experience." She looked at him, her hand still holding his. In the darkness of the car, her eyes sparkled like black diamonds. "And all I could think about was you. So, yes, Trevor, I _really_ love you."

They smiled at each other.

And at the back of his mind, that ever-present fatalist voice, which sounded unmistakably like his mother, whispered its poison.

_She's lying. She's going to leave you the first chance she gets._


	24. Chapter 23: Sailing

**A/N: **Shorter than usual chapter this time and the pacing's slow, but maybe the contents will make up for that. I don't know. I'm not good at writing this stuff. Also, there's a big ol' 'head-canon' in this one about the (Not-So-)Mysterious Death of Ryan Philips. Some of you probably won't agree with it or will outright reject it, which is okay. Head-canons are like assholes; everybody's got one. :)

Also, thanks for the reviews, follows, and favorites! Y'all are the bee's knees!

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Three:**** Sailing**

* * *

When Sonia woke up, the motel room was dark and gloomy, the thin curtain over the single window drawn closed. She sat up in the bed slowly, grimacing and hissing through her teeth. Her body was still raw from the beating she had received at the hands of Jack Valle and his two goons, particularly where her bruised up ribs were concerned, although it could have been much worse. Her head throbbed where that bullet had grazed her, a grim reminder of how close she had come to dying(literally inches). The muscles in her legs were still a bit stiff as well, but not half as bad as they had been earlier. Sleep had helped in that regard, at least.

She turned on the bedside lamp and noticed the time on the digital clock. 1:23 AM. She'd been asleep for a little over five hours. She also noticed something else, a note laying by the clock. She reached for it. It was written in a scratchy, bold, all-capitals hand and read:

_WENT OUT. BE BACK SOON._

_T_

Above the signature 'T', there was a small, messily drawn heart and the word 'you'—_Love you._

She smiled. S_weet, and a little creepy. _He had the kind of handwriting style that you might find at the scene of a murder, written on a wall in blood.

Sonia stood from the bed and put the note back on the nightstand, then crossed the room to retrieve her cellphone charger and her pack of Redwoods from her handbag. She plugged the charger into an outlet and hooked it up to her phone, then smoked three cigarettes, one right after the other. Sleep may have soothed some of the stiffness in her legs, but it had done nothing for her nerves.

After stabbing out that third cigarette in the ashtray on the nightstand, Sonia decided a nice, long, hot soak in the tub might help her relax, or perhaps ease some of the lingering pain.

But the soak did nothing but get her clean. It wasn't just the near-death experience at the chapel that still had her so wound up, either. It was what she had learned there, what she couldn't stop thinking about. When the men had taken her into that chapel, she had stalled, had gotten them to talk to give Trevor time to get there. She had asked about what Joe Pierno had told her, that Lupo had known all along about the undercover fed posing as a hitman, that Lupo had simply used him to test her, to see if she would follow her gut instincts and kill him. And Jack Valle had confirmed it. Lupo _had_ wanted her to take his place when his time came to step down. Jack had advised him against it, told him that no one would ever follow a female boss, but Lupo wouldn't hear him. _I'm sure he wishes he had listened now_, Jack had told her, not bothering to mask his hatred for her, nor his disdain for Lupo's lack of caution.

Of course, she had considered that he might be lying, but there were no plausible reasons why he would. There was no gain in it for him.

_I got Lupo thrown in prison on a misunderstanding_, Sonia thought as she stood naked in the bathroom, dripping water all over the floor, staring at her battered reflection in the foggy mirror above the sink. _The man who saved my life, who thought of me as a daughter. I tore apart an entire mafia family on a fucking _misunderstanding_._

But that wasn't entirely true. It hadn't just been the misunderstanding, the misunderstanding just made what she'd done that much worse. It had mostly been the fear, the fear of prison and the deeper fear of _being_ a prisoner again. Her life had been full of prisons; the prison of heroin addiction, the emotionless prison she had erected around her heart, the situational prison the FIB had put her in when they had given her a choice: rat out Lupo and the family or be charged with attempted murder. Fear itself was a kind of prison. And then there was the closet, where it had all started. Being thrown into a physical prison again, especially one she could not escape from, would have been her undoing. They would've had to call the men in the white coats to come haul her off to the funny farm, assuming she wouldn't kill herself first. And maybe she would have; it was, after all, the coward's way out.

She didn't want to be a coward anymore, but she knew she still was. Yes, she had found the courage to overcome the fear she'd felt inside the trunk of that car. Yes, she had also found the courage to let someone in, to love, despite how terrifying it was. But there was one thing she had run away from that she had yet to confront, and that thing was Lorenzo. The problem was she had no idea if he was still alive or not or where he might be if he was. Had he stayed in the city after she had run off all those years ago? Or had he moved? And if so, where? The possibilities were endless. He had nothing to tie him down and he had been wealthy when she'd lived with him. If he still had that kind of money, he could travel anywhere he wanted. Or maybe not. Maybe he was dead. Maybe he'd gotten into a fatal car accident or had a massive heart attack. The only thing she could do was go back, go back to that fancy, two-story house of horrors on Prickle Pine Road and _see_. If he no longer lived there...well, that was that, wasn't it? There was nothing she could do about it and that part of her life would remain incomplete—unfinished business left unfinished.

_And maybe it serves me right_, Sonia thought as she slipped on her panties. _I had my chance, didn't I? Sometimes you don't get a second one._

As she wiggled into her jeans next, she heard the door to the motel room slam, then Trevor's voice, ringing out in a comical, sing-songy tone. "_Honey, I'm home_!"

"Be out in a second," Sonia called back. Then added amusingly: "_Dear_!"

Once fully clothed, she came out of the bathroom to find Trevor standing at the end of one of the beds, bent over the black duffel bag that now sat there. He pulled something out of it and turned to her. She was stricken by his worse-than-usual appearance; his face was drawn and colorless and there was a nasty gash on his forehead, crusted with dried blood; his eyes were dark, dull, and bloodshot. He looked dead on his feet.

"Jesus, you look terrible," Sonia blurted.

"Why, _thank you;_ just what I wanted to hear," Trevor retorted sarcastically. "Y'know, you're the last person who should be throwing stones, cupcake; you ain't exactly gonna be winning any beauty pageants with that train wreck of a face."

He wasn't wrong. She'd gotten a good look at herself in the bathroom a moment ago; all the bruises, cuts, welts, and the tooth that had gotten knocked out of the left side of her mouth when one of those bastards had taken his fists to her face. The worst of it was her left eye, which was almost swollen shut. But a lack of 'beauty' wasn't what she had been referring to. "I meant health-wise; you look_ exhausted_. When's the last time you slept?"

Trevor waved off the concern. "I'll sleep when I'm dead. Here, catch." He tossed the item he was holding to her.

Sonia caught it against her chest. It was one of those clear, zip-lock sandwich bags, except it _wasn't_ exactly clear. It was covered in so much dried blood that she couldn't even see what was inside it. She was confused, unsure of what he wanted her to do with it. "What's this?"

Trevor gave a grin that just about ate up his whole face and made him look a little less weary and little more spirited. "One of your presents."

Her brows twitched upward in surprise. "Presents? _What_? What's going on?" Sonia didn't know what to make of this. He had never come off as the gift-giving type. Then again, there had been plenty of types he hadn't come off as but apparently was, to some degree. It was probably time to _stop_ typing him and just accept that he was capable of anything under the sun. God knows he's proved that by now.

That face-eating grin crumbled into an exasperated frown. "What's with the goddamn third degree? Can't a guy do something nice for his woman?"

"Saving my life was more than enough, Trevor."

"Yeah, well," Trevor said, his voice losing some of its heated edge. "I did all this _prior_ to rescuing you, so..." A shrug. "You don't get it now, but you will, when you see what's inside there." He pointed to the bag in her hand, then lost whatever weak grasp he'd momentarily regained on his patience. "Just fucking open it, alright? Christ, you always gotta make everything fucking _difficult_, don't you?"

Sonia pinched the top edges of the bag to pry it open, then, keeping in mind that it could be anything, she looked inside.

Its contents still managed to shock her, despite her prudence.

Sonia rose a hand to her mouth as her heart danced in her chest. "Oh, my God..." She had to sit down, as she didn't trust the sudden weakness in her knees.

Inside that blood-stained bag, there were two or three handfuls of age-faded yellowish-green, plastic stars of various sizes. _Her_ stars, the glow-in-the-dark ones that had adorned the ceiling of her bedroom when she was a kid. All she could think was: _How? How could he know about them? I never told him about those stars. The only thing I told him..._

A lightning bolt of realization jolted her. _A name, I told him his name. _Then: _Jesus God, he _found_ him._

It was the only thing that made sense. How else could he have known about those stars, let alone _have_ them, unless he'd been in her old bedroom? _So, he's still alive and still living in that fancy house._

Except...

She lifted her eyes from the sandwich bag in her lap to the dried blood that blotted Trevor's pants and shirt. She had wondered about it before, back at the chapel. The dried stains had already been there, _before_ he'd killed Jack and his goons.

"So...he's been alive all this time?" she asked. _But not anymore, right, Trevor?_

Trevor sat down beside her on the bed, leaning back on his hands and stretching his long legs out before him. "He _was_."

The wicked satisfaction in his voice made goosebumps jaunt across her skin. She rose her eyes to meet his face. He wore a huge grin not unlike the one he'd had on moments ago. Only it wasn't just on his face now. She saw it staring back from his eyes, and maybe it was the light in the room, but they had changed. They weren't that dark, hard dirt-brown, the color of a freshly dug grave. They were warmer, brighter, as if a light was shining somewhere behind them.

"What did you do?" Sonia asked.

His boundless grin faltered again. "You really gotta ask that? I mean, _come on_, it's fuckin' obvious."

"I wanna _hear_ it." Because sometimes you just needed to; sometimes you needed the extra verbal confirmation before something became real, _final_.

Trevor groaned out his irritation. "I put things right. You want the fuckin' details? I butchered the bastard with a fucking _cleaver_ and left his pieces scattered all over the floor of your old bedroom."

_So that's it_, she thought. _He's dead and now I'll never get to confront him. _But she couldn't find it in herself to be angry at Trevor for robbing her of that chance. How could she, when he had saved her life, when he had brought her her beloved stars, when he had taken the goddamn time to collect them from her bedroom ceiling, all clear signs that he actually _did_ give a fuck?

"And I enjoyed every minute of it," he went on. "I'd fucking do it again, a hundred times over." A brief pause, then: "I did it for _us_."

"Us?"

"Us_. _Did I not fucking sayit had to do with me as much as it had to do with you?"

"Actually, I think your exact words were '_It has everything to do with me_'."

He rolled his eyes. "Yeah, whatever, you get the fucking point. I wanted _my_ revenge too. I fucking _needed_ it, y'know? And he was a good enough surrogate for those fucking assholes who molested me."

Sonia winced. Asshole_s_—plural. She was certain he'd told her that before, but only now did it _really_ hit home. He was no stranger to what she had suffered, only he had suffered it worse; not at the hands of one, but at the hands of _many. _It made her burn with anger. She wanted to find them, all of them, make them fucking suffer. But she couldn't, just as he couldn't, and that fact only fanned the fire.

"And you..." Trevor continued angrily. "What that fucking wretch did to you...you think I'm just gonna fucking stand for that to go unpunished?"

"Honestly?" Sonia said, trying to keep her voice steady, but her own anger came through. "Yeah, I thought you _would_ stand for it, because I didn't think you—"

"Gave a shit?" He scowled and nodded his head, answering his own question. "Right, right. I mean, I'm the fucking _psychopath_ who's not _capable_ of giving a shit, _right_?"

She sighed and pinched the bridge of her nose. "That's _not_ what I meant, Trevor. Before you saved my life, I just figured the only thing you gave a shit about was getting in my pants, considering you were always making sexual passes at me. You can't exactly blame me."

That softened his ire, but only a little. "I _was_ trying to get in your pants—I still _am—_but, c'mon, sunshine, you honestly think I'd go through all this fucking trouble to get laid, when I can just _pay_ to get laid? I wanted to get in _here_ too." He poked hard at her chest, where her heart was.

Sonia took his hand, weaved her fingers through his "Why_, _though? Why me? I just don't understand that. I'm a fucked up mess, Trevor. Don't you want something...better, someone with less shit to put up with?"

"No, I don't want better. I want _you_.I happen to love that you're a fucked up mess and the fact that you _know_ you're a fucked up mess. We have that in common. We have a _lot_ in common, in fact. You kill people, I kill people; you're a criminal, I'm a criminal—although I think we can both agree I'm the _better_ one on both accounts; and you need this life as much as I do." He pulled his hand from hers and held his arms out in a gesture that said _How can you deny the obvious?_ "We're a perfect match..." Now he grinned. "Like guns and bullets."

"You kill people because it's fun for you. I kill people because its necessary. Those are two _very_ different things, Trevor."

"They are," he allowed. "But I think you _do_ enjoy it at times; you enjoy the ones you think have it coming. Or am I wrong?"

Sonia couldn't deny that. Had she gotten the chance to, she would've enjoyed killing Commander Cain of the Sandy Shores sheriff's department. But that fat, rapist pig was likely bacon now, a victim of the station's destruction. _I hope he died slow; I hope he felt his skin melting off his bones. _

"No, but I still think we have very little in common," she said. "I mean, we don't even listen to the same music."

"And we probably don't have the same favorite color or watch the same TV shows, and I know for a fact that we don't read the same fucking books—"

"_You_ read books?" she interrupted, shocked. "Seriously?"

Trevor scowled. "I'm not an uncultured fucking barbarian. Yes, I read books. Once in a blue moon, but it _does_ happens, alright? And no, the books I read don't have fucking _pictures_."

She bit back a laugh at his defensive tone. "I wasn't implying—"

"Never mind," he cut her off. "The point is it doesn't matter if we read the same books or listen to the same fucking music. That's trivial bullshit. You know what's really fucking important to me, what I really love about you? It's the fact that you know what and who I am, but you never look at me the way other people do, never _treat_ me the way they do. I mean, yeah, you've bitched me out a couple times over how I handle things, but for the most part, you accept me for who I am. I love you because you're the only person in this goddamn world who doesn't make me fucking hate myself, who knows I'm a monster, but can still make me feel _human_."

Sonia stared at him, surprised into speechlessness. She had never considered that she might have made such an impact on him. Why would she, when the only impacts she had ever made on anyone were the kind that ruined or ended lives? She didn't know what to say to him.

Trevor slapped his hands together with a loud _clap_ that chopped through the silence in the room like an ax. "Anyway!" He grabbed the duffel bag and dropped it between them on the bed. He unzipped one side of it and pulled out a flowery picture frame, dropping it in her lap. "Saw that, had a feeling you might want it."

Sonia smiled at the photo of her eight-year-old self standing between her grinning parents outside the Lil' Probe Inn, a pair of silly, green alien antennae perched on her head. She remembered that day trip well, and the man who had owned and worked the inn, a tall, gangly fellow who looked like Johnny Cash with his solemn face, old soul eyes, and all black clothes. He had given her those novelty alien antennae at no cost to her parents, and while they ate lunch there at the counter, he had talked at length about aliens and government conspiracies, much to her mother's enjoyment. She had been one of those people who believed humans weren't alone in the universe and the assassination of the 35th President of the United States was a CIA job and there _was_ a second shooter on the grassy knoll. Her father had believed more in cold hard facts. They had been different like that in a lot of ways; he had been grounded and level-headed where she was irrational and emotional, he was a planner where she was spontaneous, he was a nurturer where she was an administer of tough love. But sometimes two different tones create harmony, and Sonia had been born out of theirs. Twelve short years were all they'd had together, but those had been the happiest twelve years of her life. Maybe she could find that again, and maybe it was with the lunatic who sat beside her. In the least likeliest of places, at that. But that was one of life's little ironies, wasn't it? You always find something in the least likeliest place, even when you're not looking. Sometimes you just stumble upon it.

"Your feeling was correct," she said. "Can't believe he still had it after all these years."

Trevor snorted. "Your goddamn _room_ hadn't even changed after twenty years. It was fucking _weird;_ looked like a kid was still living there."

Sonia had a terrible thought: what if Lorenzo hadn't stopped with her? What if he'd had more victims? What if, after all these years, he was _still_ living his sick little fantasies? She grabbed onto Trevor's wrist, her eyes wide, her face losing color. "Did you check the closet? The one in my room?"

Trevor knew what she was thinking, because it was all over her horrified face. He shook his head. "He wouldn't'a done it again."

"You don't _know_ that."

"Yeah, sunshine, I do, because I was _there_; I saw how he was. Just a shell. Guilt was slowly killing him for years. Bastard just didn't have the guts to finish himself off, been waiting all this time for someone else to do it for him, and he _knew_ that's what I'd come there for."

Sonia didn't say anything to that. Knowing that his guilt had eaten him up gave her some sense of satisfaction, but very little.

"Alrighty, last thing. Dear old Uncle Enzo bequeath you the contents of this duffel." He petted the sturdy, black canvas between them. "Said it wouldn't make up for what he did, but he wanted you to have it."

Sonia gave it a mistrustful look. She wasn't sure she wanted to know what Lorenzo wanted her to have; she was almost _afraid_ to know.

Trevor nudged her with an elbow. "Go on, have a gander. The suspense is fucking killing me."

Sonia rolled her eyes, but she was smiling a little. She reached over and pulled the bag's zipper the rest of the way down, looking inside. She frowned, then reached in and brought out a stack of hundred dollar bills held together by a paper bill band, thumbing through the green. She dropped it back into the duffel.

"Money." Her tone was flat.

"Little over three hundred thousand," Trevor said. "Counted it myself. Enough cabbage to keep you comfortable for a while, assuming you're gonna keep it. Which brings up a pertinent question: _are_ you?" He gave her a loose grin. "I mean, if you don't want it, I'll gladly take it off your hands."

Sonia laughed at that. It brought some color back to her cheeks. "Right, because you really need it when you're sitting on that mountain of Union Depository loot. What'd you make off that _legendary_ job anyway? Ten mil? _Twenty_?"

"Try a little over thirty." Trevor looked amused. "Suddenly you're real interested in my money. You hoping to make me your sugar daddy?"

Sonia did not deign that with a response. "I figured it was a lot; I was just trying to make a point."

"Well, there's _no_ point letting this money go to waste. Hell, I could take it to a casino and turn it into an easy million."

"Then keep it."

His brows hoicked. "Really? You're saying _no _to three hundred grand? Just like that?"

Sonia grimaced. "Yes, just like that. I'm not gonna accept _money_ from my fucking _rapist_." She shoved the black bag onto the floor, away from her. "Can't you see the insult in it, that he's paying me off like I'm a fucking _whore_? _God,_ I hope you made him fucking _suffer._"

"Oh, don't you worry about that. He was still alive when I started hacking pieces off him, and he did _not_ die quietly, let me tell you."

This really shouldn't have been turning her on, but God help her, it was. It wasn't the details. It was just the fact that he had made the bastard suffer, he'd made him _pay_. Even knowing he'd only done it partially for her benefit, it still made her want him.

"I mean, all that screaming and begging," Trevor went on. "Loud enough to wake the fucking neighborhood. And when he shit and pissed himself..." He laughed. "Ah, kinda wished you were there to share in on it all."

She shrugged. "I told you, I never wanted—"

"—to see him again," he finished with a roll of his eyes. "Yeah, I _know, _but it would've been a beautiful experience for us. Nothing brings two people closer together like murdering someone together."

For a moment, Sonia didn't say anything, then she scooted closer to him, almost timidly. But there was nothing timid in her face or eyes when she looked up at him. No, what Trevor saw staring back at him was the Lioness, only now she wasn't pissed off and wanting to claw his face off. Now she was _hungry_. "I can think of another activity that brings two people closer together..."

"Is this seriously going where I think it's going?" he breathed.

Sonia smiled. "Your chances just went from _maybe_ to _let's boink_."

Trevor grabbed her at the back of the neck and pulled her close to his face. "_Finally_. It's about goddamn time this ship sailed."

And then they were kissing. It was heavy and hungry; a potent blend of lips, tongue, and teeth. They pawed at each other with clumsy hands, exploring, then holding on tight. He could taste the tobacco she had smoked earlier on her lips and tongue, bitter but not entirely unpleasant. She had a strong grip on the hair at the back of his head, pulling on it hard enough to hurt, just the way he liked. Her other hand pressed against his back, long nails digging into the fabric of his shirt and the skin beneath.

The rest happened in a pink, delirious haze. More impassioned kissing and groping; clothes pulled and torn off by hands desperate to get at the flesh underneath, the articles left scattered and forgotten across the room. His hands on her, exploring every curve and edge of her soft, naked body. Her mouth on his throat, kissing, licking, sucking, her teeth closing upon his pulse point, gently, until she felt his life throbbing against her tongue, quick and hard. His fingers slipping into the wet heat between her legs, stroking against the sweet spot within that her panting his name and teetering on the brink of release, only to be brought back from the edge by him. Her hand around his cock, followed closely by her mouth(about goddamn time he got that blow job too), both working in perfect harmony, dragging ragged and distressed sounds out of him. And when he started to peak, she eased off him, as he had done her, knowing as much as he did that it would make things more intense later on.

Sonia insisted on being on top, and Trevor was more than happy to let it happen for the time being. She raised her hips over him and her hand guided his seething hard-on into her depths. At first, she didn't move. She leaned down and kissed him; his lips, the corners of his mouth, his face, with a tenderness rarely shown to him. She leaned back, pulling him up with her until they were chest-to-chest, so close they could taste each other's breath. _Then_ she moved, slowly at first, grinding her hips, stirring him inside her. But it wasn't enough. Every part of him was screaming for speed and friction. Trevor pulled on her hips, urging her to move quicker, his burning eyes staring into hers. "C'mon, Sonia, fuck me like there's no tomorrow." There was husky urgency in his voice. This was more than want. He needed her in a way that could not be put into words, could not be compared to anything else.

Sonia rocked against him a little quicker, thrusting with her knees, her vaginal muscles clenching around him. Trevor groaned loudly and dug his fingers into her hips. "That's it, sunshine," he encouraged, his voice nothing more than a low growl. "Faster."

The guttural sound of his voice and the raging hunger in his eyes were as potent as the stimulation between her legs and drove the urgency for more, to have him deep, deep inside her. Sonia wrapped an arm around his neck and braced a hand against the headboard as she rode him fast and hard, plunging him in as far as he would go. His hands grasped her ass, squeezing, helping her up and down his cock. The room filled with the loud sounds of her frantic moans and his deep, throaty grunts and her ass smacking against his thighs. He felt her walls throbbing, _gripping_. She was close, and he wasn't that far behind.

Without warning, Trevor snaked an arm around her waist and rolled them both over, asserting the dominant position. He'd given her the reins for most of the show, but he wanted the finale.

"What the h-" Sonia started to protest until he thrust back into her, turning the rest of her complaint into a loud gasp.

Her hands reached for him. Trevor caught them and pinned them down and thrust again, watching her flushed face contort in rapture. She was fucking _perfect_, bruises and all.

"You're mine," he grunted, feverish eyes boring down into hers. "Say it. Tell me." Because sometimes you just needed to hear it before it became real and final.

Sonia writhed under him, desperate to touch him, but unable to free her hands from his grip. "I'm yours." It came out choked with emotion. "All of me. Let me touch you; _I need to touch you."_

He rewarded her with a sharper thrust instead, hitting a sensitive spot that made her cry out and clench tight around him, the sensation driving him ever closer to his climax. He gritted his teeth and rammed his cock into her again. "_Mine_."

Her body arched off the mattress, pressing against him. "Ah—_Yes_!"

Trevor released her hands from the bed, planting his own down either side of her, and set a furious rhythm, coaxing out the animal in her.

And she came out alright. As Sonia closed in on the end, she rutted up against his every thrust, digging her claws into his hips and her teeth into his clavicle, hard enough to draw blood.

"_Fuck_," he shouted, hoarsely, his pelvis pounding against hers, pounding to the primal pulse beating inside them both.

"God...Oh, Jesus God, Trevor," she growled, clinging to him like he was the only thing keeping her in this world. His skin was hot and slick and taut over tensed muscles, and she could feel him approaching his own peak, swelling inside her.

"Scream," he commanded through his teeth. "Tell the fucking world who's making you come."

And as if on cue, Sonia's orgasm hit and she shattered, shrieking his name like a siren, her nails boring into his back and leaving streams of blood in their wake.

The wild spasms inside her coupled with the sweet, cruel pain she inflicted on him had him right on the brink. With a few more hard, deep thrusts, he was gone. Trevor dropped his face into the crook of her neck and held her tight against him, his whole body clenching up. He came with a loud, broken wail Sonia had never heard any human being make before. He sounded like an animal in mortal pain.

He collapsed on top of her, lightheaded, heart pounding, nerves buzzing with the residual electricity of his release, and mumbled something incoherent against her neck.

Sonia was too winded to ask what he'd said. She held him against her despite his crushing weight, an arm locked around his shoulders, a hand in the hair at the nape of his neck, gently gripping.

They lay together like that for several, long moments, not speaking, simply basking in the warm, comfortable aftermath of their intense lovemaking.

Sonia was just starting to nod off when Trevor finally mustered the strength to lever himself up on his elbows to look up at her. "Why'd you have to make us wait so fucking long to do this? Christ, I don't think I've _ever _come that hard in my life. Thought I was gonna have a fucking heart attack."

She smiled a little and thumbed away a bead of sweat off his forehead. "Maybe that's what made it so intense, the wait."

"Yeah. Probably." Trevor rolled off of her and onto his back, wincing a little when the deep scratches she'd made twinged. Which reminded him... "I _knew_ it; totally called it."

Sonia turned her head to look at him, unable to move the rest of her body. Now that the tenseness of her orgasm had gone out of her muscles, she felt like a bowl of pudding. "What?"

He gave her that huge grin again, the one that lit up his eyes. "You _are_ an animal in the sack; I got the scratches and bites to prove it."

* * *

Later, they went at it again, then a third time. With their starving need tempered from the first session, they were able to take things more slow and with more control, savoring rather than gorging on each other. Each time they climaxed, it was just as intense as the first one.

Afterward, they lay together in the greyish-purple light of dawn, which filtered in through the thin curtain covering the only window in the room. Sonia lay with her head propped up on two pillows, a lit cigarette in one hand. The other rested against the back of his neck, fingers drawing lazy circles on the tanned skin there or sometimes weaving through his hair. Trevor lay partway on top of her, one side of his face pillowed by her breasts, an arm cinched tight around her. Every time he exhaled, she could feel his breath on her skin, warm and light.

She had thought she might feel weird after doing this with him, awkward, maybe even a little apprehensive. It _was_ the first time she'd ever had sex completely sober, after all; she was usually buzzed or totally shitfaced or, back in the day, high as the stratosphere. Except she didn't feel awkward or apprehensive. She felt _better, _in her mind, in her body, in her soul; it was like the sex wasn't just sex, but a kind of _healing_.

"I killed my brother," Trevor suddenly said.

Her hand, which had gone back to stroking the hair at the back of his head, stilled. It was the unexpected sound of his voice cutting through the silence that had startled her. She had thought he was asleep.

"Uh...you had a brother?" Sonia had no idea how else to respond; how _do _you respond to out-of-the-blue confessions of fratricide?

He nodded against her chest. "Ryan. Older brother. Fucking hated him."

"Why?" And at the question, Sonia felt him tense up.

"Because he was a fucking _prick_...and my mother loved him more than me. Can't blame her. Ryan was the good, _normal_ son, the fucking golden boy. Me, I was the _peculiar_ one, the bad egg, the fucked up little monster. She knew there was something wrong with me the day I was born, yet she still kept me and raised me, _bless her_."

_And treated you like shit and never did a fucking thing about the bastards who molested you._ _Yeah, she's a real fucking saint. _Sonia hoped she was dead and was glad he couldn't read minds.

Her hand resumed stroking his hair. "Go on," she urged, her voice soft despite the angry fire burning through her. "I wanna hear the rest."

"Right, well...I had this idea that if Ryan was taken out of the equation, Mother would love _me_ more—y'know, stupid kid thinking. There was this train bridge not far from where we lived; about fifty feet high, maybe more. No trains ran on it anymore, so we'd go up there a lot and fuck around; drink, smoke, throw shit off the bridge for shits and giggles."

"Typical rebellious kid activities," Sonia said with a nod. Even though they had grown up in different eras, some things never changed. A hundred years from now, there were still going to be kids drinking and smoking and throwing shit off bridges.

"Used to play a game too," Trevor went on. "The bridge was railed off, and the top of the railing was flat, about five inches wide. We'd see who could walk across it the farthest. Ryan never got a quarter of the way, because Ryan was a fucking pussy. _I _could have done it, no problem, but he'd always fucking cheat and pull me off before I passed his mark."

"Because he _knew_ he was a fucking pussy," Sonia surmised as she reached over to the nightstand to stab her cigarette out in the ashtray. "And he didn't want his little brother showing him up."

"Yeah, he _really_ fucking hated that; he hated it if I surpassed him at anything. Always had to be number fucking one. Like I said, a fucking prick. So, anyway, we got to the bridge and I suggested we play our old game. He didn't want to, but I convinced him easily enough—"

"You called him a pussy," she guessed.

Trevor laughed. "And it got him up on that railing real fucking quick. Little prick was _determined _to get across this time, let me tell you. He got past his usual mark, but no further than that. 'Cause I shoved him off. I still remember the way he screamed like a girl on the way down and the sound his body made when it hit those rocks. Even from fifty feet up you could every bone in his body _snap_. I told everyone that it was an accident, that he just slipped off. And everybody believed me. Well, everybody except—"

"Your mother."

"Because she _knew;_ she knew there was something wrong with me the day I was born. And she knew I murdered him. Still, she didn't tell the cops and she didn't send me away. Because that's the kind of woman she is. _Loyal_."

"Did you kill him before or after you were molested?" Sonia asked.

Trevor rose his head to look at her, frowning. "Before, after...what the fuck does it matter?"

"There's no way she could've known there was something wrong with you the _day_ you were born. And it ain't like the fucking doctor told her 'Congratulations, Mrs. Philips, you've given birth to a murderous baby boy.' It's bullshit, Trevor. Killers aren't born. They're _made_."

"But she wasn't fucking wrong, _was she_?" he snapped, anger flickering in his eyes. And those eyes dared her to argue. _Do it_, they said. _Tell me she's wrong and see what fucking happens._

"I don't know, Trevor," she sighed, resigning. There were certain territories of his that she could cross into and get away with, but this was not one of them. When it came to his mother, it was best to just fucking back off. "Why'd you tell me about this, anyway? I mean, it was kind of...well, _sudden_. Never mentioned anything about your brother before."

"I honestly don't fucking know," Trevor admitted as he pulled himself up a bit to lean over her, covering her body with his own. Her dark hair was a tangled mess, sprawled out around her on the pillow and she stared up at him with those half-lidded, bedroom eyes. Even though the meth had worn off hours ago and he was tired as shit, he wanted to fuck her again. "It just came out. You should feel fucking special; I've never told anyone about that before." He bent his head down, kissed that space between her neck and shoulder, then _bit_.

"Why not?" Sonia gasped, arching into him, her hands questing up his back.

He grinned and murmured against her skin, "I dunno, I just haven't. And I don't wanna fucking talk about this shit anymore." His hand came up under her breast, then around it, squeezing. "Let's fuck again."

She let out a breathless laugh. "Jesus, you're a goddamn _machine_."

With the meth in his system, perhaps. But it was gone and this was something else. "I've been waiting for someone like you all my fucking life. I'm just making up for lost time."


	25. Chapter 24: Doubts

**A/N:** I was doing good, wasn't I, Dearest Readers? Updating every two weeks on the dot. Then wham! I got the flu(most likely from a Walmart shopping cart—take advantage of those free Purell wipes, people!)and lost my writing groove. But! I'm groovin' now. _Ho-yeah!_ as Peggy Hill says. This chapter is shorter than usual, however, but I'm hoping to update again next weekend.

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Four:**** Doubt**

* * *

Of all the biological functions his body went through, sleep was the one Trevor hated most. Was it necessary? Unfortunately, yes, but that didn't stop it from being a major waste of time, when he would _much_ rather be wreaking untold destruction and killing enemies, or whomever.

Then there were the nightmares that often plagued him. Sometimes they weren't exceptionally bad; black-and-white fragments of vaguely frightening images that played across his unconscious mind like a _noir_ movie and had no real meaning. But sometimes the nightmares were in bright, painful, hideous technicolor, so clear and distinct they could've been real, and carried with them some horrifying message or truth, some possibility or inevitability his mind defensively avoided during its wakeful hours. That was the thing about dreaming; there were no defenses, no cerebral bouncers to keep the frightening troublemakers out.

Presently in his unconscious mind, he was walking alone through the desert_._ It was sunny and windy. Sand whipped around his legs and swept through the air, and the odd tumbleweed rolled and bounced across the desert floor like a beach ball. Above him, wisps of white clouds brushed across a canvas of faded blue. It was supposed to be hot in the desert in mid-summer, but it wasn't. Trevor felt cold, a cold that went to his bones despite the layers of the smart black suit he was wearing for some reason that wasn't presently available to him.

In the distance he could make out a white shape through the thin layer of swirling, golden sand, which wasn't quite a sandstorm, though it seemed to be trying really hard to become one. The closer he got to the shape, the more distinct it became. It was a chapel, like the one in Pueblo Rojo where he'd rescued Sonia.

No. As he closed in on it, he saw it _was_ that chapel; the broken stained glass in the doors was familiar. He could hear eerie organ music coming from it; it sounded like something out of _Phantom of the Opera_ or an old Dracula movie.

Trevor climbed the steps and opened the big, wooden double doors, their old hinges crying out. As soon as he stepped inside, he was assaulted by frozen air that momentarily stunned him in his tracks and a smell that could only be described as dank and dead. The organ music abruptly stopped, and it seemed the whole goddamned instrument had disappeared as well, because he didn't see any organ anywhere. Perhaps it had never even been there.

All three rows of pews on each side of the aisle were packed full of people, but no one looked back at his entrance. Their attention was front and center, on the closed black coffin standing before the altar.

This wasn't right. Though he had willfully come here, Trevor wanted to leave. It wasn't that he was afraid—fuck no—he just had this sense that he was in the wrong place. But he _didn't_ leave. Some other force suddenly took hold of him, compelling him up the aisle, which was littered with dead, crispy rose petals. Up the aisle toward that black box of death.

The funeral-goers were still as statues, quiet as shadows. The only sound in the chapel was the tortured screak coming from the ancient floorboards under his black dress shoes. Trevor sensed something weird about the silence, something..._off_.

Then, one by one, the people in the pews slowly turned their heads toward him, like a bunch of creepy, possessed dolls in a horror movie. And Trevor saw that they were not _living_ people as he had first assumed. Their faces were shades of white, gray, and grayish-green, and showed various stages of decomposition. They wore suits and dresses that were tattered and worn; perhaps the clothes they had been buried in. They stared at him with condemning eyes.

Trevor knew those faces. Of course he did; they were people he'd killed, after all. Not _all_ the people he'd killed—it would take a brobdingnagian church to hold _that_ many dead—but these were the handful of memorable ones, people he had once loved or liked, but had been found guilty of committing some unforgivable offense against him and were unable to escape his merciless wrath.

That whatever force that had compelled him up the aisle was now his own morbid curiosity. If these were the memorable ones, then who was in the coffin? Whose weird-ass funeral was this?

Trevor stopped in front of the coffin and placed his hands on the lid, preparing to lift it and take a gander at the corpse. The surface was smooth and cold and shiny black. Pretty, bottomless black, just like...

He suddenly took his hands back as if the lid had grown too hot to touch. It was like a switch had clicked on in his brain and shined some light in a dark, hidden corner. He knew who was in that box, and he didn't want to look anymore.

Trevor backed away, wanting to put as much distance between that coffin and himself as possible. He raised his hands to the back his head and spoke an emphatic, childish rebuttal. "_No_." It wasn't true; it _couldn't_ be true.

He backpedaled into numerous pairs of grabbing hands—cold, rotting hands—and instantly tried to jerk free, but those hands were _strong. _The dead wrestled with him like cops trying to restrain an uncooperative criminal. He hadn't even heard them rise from the pews.

They forced him back to the coffin, their angry voices urging him to look, to _see_ the truth for himself. Trevor refused to open it, so three of the dead did it for him. One of them was his brother Ryan, fourteen now as he was at the time of his death. His head was cocked at a gruesome angle thanks to his broken neck. The back of his skull was caved in enough for Trevor to see the black, rotten mess that had once been his brain. His spine, both legs and his left arm were supposed to be just as broken as his neck, but for whatever reason they weren't.

Yes, there _had_ been a short time when Trevor had loved him. There had even been a time when he'd looked up to him and wanted to _be_ him, but that had been long, long ago, before his balls had even dropped, before he'd wised up to the fact that Ryan was both a dick and a threat and no matter how hard he tried, Trevor would _never_ be the golden boy.

The dead hands pushed at him again, forcing him forward. _Go on_, their owners said. _Look. Witness the truth._ Except he didn't hear them, not in the general sense, because they weren't speaking in that movement-of-mouth, outward-voice kind of way. He heard them in his _head_.

Trevor didn't _want_ to look, he was fucking _afraid_ to, but his eyes betrayed him.

She rested on a bed of black satin, wearing a dress of innocent white silk and lace that looked more bridal than funerary. Her hands were folded neatly over her bosom and her hair fanned out around her in pretty dark chestnut waves. A veil of the same white lace as her dress crowned her head and made a bed for her hair. Her skin was pale as alabaster and flawless, showing not a hint of decay. She was beautiful even in death.

A pitiful sob wormed its way out of his throat. "What happened?" Then louder and outraged: "_What the fuck happened to her_?!"

"The inevitable, brother..." Ryan said, his decayed lips moving, although what made him so fucking special that he could speak with his own mouth, Trevor didn't know. His brother pointed a decomposed finger of blame at him. "_You_."

"What? No, that's fucking bullshit!" Trevor flared, growling the words. He started to reach for him, wanting nothing more than to tear the little fucking liar's head right off his shoulders, but those rotting hands held him back with preternatural strength.

"You're the one who put her in that box," Ryan accused.

He shook his head, refusing it. "_No_. Just 'cause I put _you_ in one doesn't mean-"

"You killed her."

_You know its true_, said that collective mind-voice of the dead. _It's who you are._

"She was going to leave again, because that was inevitable too. You murdered her before she could, just like you murdered all of us."

_Murderer_, the dead hissed. _Monster._

Trevor fought again against the icy, putrefied hands leeching onto him. "Fuck you! _Fuck all of you_! She means more to me than the whole fucking lot of you!" He was furious, not because they were calling him names he knew he was, but because he was afraid what his brother was accusing him of was true.

Ryan said nothing this time. He merely pointed to the coffin and the mind-voice of the dead said, _The proof speaks for itself._

Inside, Sonia remained motionless, but a red flower of blood bloomed on her dress between her breasts and expanded until it soaked her entire torso. A red line appeared in the flesh of her bruised throat—bruises _he_ had put there during their fight at Sandy Shores Airfield—and opened up. Blood poured out first in little streams, then in an endless river, spilling over her. Her skin began to shrivel and rot all the way down to her bones. The blood flowed and flowed, filling up the coffin, and Trevor had the absurd idea that she was going to drown in it.

He tried to reach for her, to pull her out, despite knowing she was already dead and it didn't matter. That was when he noticed the bloody knife gripped by his right hand.

And as her own blood began to swallow her up, Sonia opened her eyes and spoke with the dead's mind-voice, echoing their words: _It's who you are._

* * *

Trevor jerked awake with a strangled noise and levered himself up with his elbows.

_Yuck _was the first thought that jumped into his groggy head. He felt cold and icky all over, as if icy bugs were crawling around under his flesh; it was a feeling he had yet to find a proper name for, but which he always felt upon waking up from a particularly nasty dream.

Dragging a hand over his face, he sat up fully and eyed the thick bar of golden sunlight that spilled in through the motel room window and across the floor. The window faced the west, so it had to be close to evening. He'd slept the whole damn day away.

Trevor looked to his right, to confirm that Sonia was still beside him, but that space now reserved for her was empty.

A worm of fear writhed in his guts.

_Not again, _he thought, but he noticed her clothes were gone from the floor. It was also quiet—_too_ quiet. The shower wasn't running. The bathroom door was open and the light was off.

_This isn't happening. This is _not_ fucking happening. She wouldn't do this to me again._ Trying to convince himself. Or perhaps it was straight-up denial.

Trevor swung his legs over the side of the bed and was about to rise when a few more dismaying things were brought to his attention. That little sandwich bag full of cheap, plastic stars and the framed photo of her family, both were gone. On a gut feeling, he went through that duffel bag full of money, that money she had claimed she wanted nothing to do with. There was a thousand of it missing.

_Okay, Trevor,_ he thought as he started to pace the floor now. _No need to panic. There must be a logical explanation for why she took all her shit and enough money for a plane ticket to anywhere on civilized earth._ _C'mon, think._

_Of course there's a logical explanation,_ that ever-lurking, cynical voice of his mother said. _She's been playing your ass like a fiddle since day one and finally got bored with the game. I tried to warn you she was lying about everything, didn't I? But do you listen? Oh, no. You _never_ listen and you _never_ fucking learn. How many times you gotta get burnt before you realize no one is ever gonna stick around and love the likes of you?_

But they'd had sex; _fantastic_ sex and a _lot_ of it in one night. And _she_ had been the one to initiate it. She wouldn't have done that unless she had feelings for him, unless she truly wanted him, not after how quick she was to reject his advances in the beginning.

_Right_, mommy dearest laughed,_ like that little whore's never used her cunt to get what she wants. _

"That's not fair," Trevor said. "It was a long time ago, and it was only to pay for the skag."

_Sure. It ain't like she's never _lied _to you about anything, right? Face the facts, boy. She just wanted to fuck with you. Been doing it since the day you met, hasn't she? The lies and deception, the little cheeky remarks, always pushing your buttons and making you jealous. Was probably faking those orgasms too. She gets off on this shit; this was all just a _game_, you blind dumbshit, and now that she's had her fun, it's time to move on to the next pathetic, lonely idiot._

Sometimes it was hard to argue with that voice, because sometimes it said shit that made sense. She _had _done those things, hadn't she? And he _had_ caught her smiling a few times while she did them. _Enjoying_ it, getting off on it.

_She's gone and she ain't coming back. You were just a toy, easily cast aside when you stopped being amusing. And you fucking _know_ it now, don't you?_

He felt his chest tighten, his eyes burn, and a moon-sized lump swell in his throat, and knew what was coming: the pain and despair, the tears and wishing he and the person who had hurt him were dead. He wanted to get lit; no, he _needed _to get lit, to flood his brain with so much dopamine that it became _impossible_ to feel that pain. But there was nothing to get lit with.

So Trevor tried to hold back that dark tide of anguish rolling up on him by throwing a heap of anger and destruction in its way.

He grabbed the nearest object—the alarm clock—and hurled it across the room with a thunderous, soulful "_Fuck_!" The clock smashed through the TV screen with a satisfying crash, and of course he didn't stop there.

Trevor snatched the room phone off the nightstand, ripping the cord out of the landline socket. It took flight as the alarm clock had, bashing against a wall with a clang and knocking off a framed print of some painter's rendering of the Venturas skyline at night. It shattered on the floor, broken glass scattering around the carpet.

He took up the chair by the door next, raising it over his head, wholly intent on smashing it through the goddamned window. That was when the door opened.

Trevor twisted and threw the chair in that direction instead, because only a person could've opened the door and hurting a person would feel _really_ fucking good right now.

Quick reflexes had Sonia ducking down low, out of its path. The chair winged over her head and through the threshold, smashing into the windshield of a car parked right outside the room. Its alarm started whooping.

"_Jesus fuck_!" Sonia shouted at him as she straightened up. Her eyes were wide and her expression disbelieving. "What the hell's wrong with you!?"

Trevor momentarily lost the ability to speak, surprised—shocked even—that she was _there_. He had been sure that cynical mother-voice was right, because, more often than not, she _was_. As soon as the shock wore off, however, the anger came flooding back and gave him his voice. "_Where the fuck were you_?!"

Sonia frowned and took a step toward him, but that was as far as she got.

"Back off! Or I swear to _God_!" Trevor warned, pointing a shaky finger at her and retreating back a step. Perhaps the cynical voice had been wrong this time, but that did nothing for his anger—and he was really fucking angry. He didn't trust himself; he didn't want that nightmare he'd had to become reality. "Just fucking stay over there!"

Sonia stopped in her tracks. "What's wrong? _Calm down_." She lifted the grease-stained paper sack she was carrying in her hand. "I just went out for some grub and to-"

"_Calm down_?! Fuck you! I just woke up from a scary-ass nightmare to an empty bed and no explanation why! You had me believing you fucking ran out on me again; I think I have a _right_ to be a little fucking _upset_!"

"'A little fucking upset'? That's the understatement of the century." Sonia tossed the paper sack on the nearest bed, crossed her arms over her chest, and frowned at him. "Are you gonna do this every time I go somewhere without you, automatically assume I'm never coming back?"

Trevor mirrored her defensive posture and shrugged coolly. "Can't exactly blame me, what with you being a _flight risk _and all. Your shit's gone and there's a grand missing from that duffel bag—_my_ money, I might add. Yeah, that's right, ol' Trev _notices_ shit. You care to fucking explain that?"

She did, but not in words. She reached into her back pocket, pulled something out, and held it out to him on the palm of her hand. It turned out to be a few somethings; five little gram-sized baggies containing a painfully familiar substance he frequently used.

_Perfect,_ Trevor thought unhappily. _That's just fucking perfect._

Sonia stretched her hand out further at him, a gesture that said _go on, take them_. He refused to at first, but stubborn pride soon submitted to that persistent and overwhelming need for his poison, as it always does. He took a few jerky steps forward and snatched the drugs from her, muttering a bitter and dissatisfied "Coulda fucking said something about it. Or _left a note_, like I did for _you._"

"I thought I was gonna be back before you woke up; I've only been gone for thirty minutes. I just took the thousand to be safe, didn't know how much it was gonna cost," Sonia informed him. "The meth was five hundred. Bought everything the dealer had on him; he was happy as a clam." She smiled a little, but it was forced.

Trevor made himself look at her despite how difficult it suddenly was. To avoid eye contact might indicate guilt—which he definitely did not feel. Nope. Not him. Never. _Shit_. "How'd you know I was out?"

Sonia shrugged. "You slept for more than eight hours, for one thing. So obviously it wasn't in your system anymore. Then I realized that's why you looked so exhausted earlier. You were sober, which I've never actually seen before. Figured you must've burned through whatever stash you had."

He scratched an imaginary itch behind his ear and cleared his throat. "Oh. Well, good to know you're lookin' out for me. You still shoulda fucking said something."

She stared at him wordlessly, that Buddhist Monk impassiveness on her face. By now, he'd come to know what that blank look meant, and it wasn't good. She had her walls up.

"So...uh, listen-"

"I don't know what made you think all my shit was gone," Sonia cut him off. "The only thing I took with me was the money and the room key. The only shit I have is my purple handbag and my cellphone, and they're both in the room. There's my handbag." She pointed over near the bathroom door, where a very obvious purple purse sat on the floor. Then she pointed to the nightstand, and frowned. "Well, my cellphone was _supposed_ to be there. Did you move it?" Sonia walked between the double beds where the nightstand was, searching for the object.

Trevor saw it first, laying there on the carpet. He must've knocked it off when he'd ripped the room phone out of the wall, which meant it had been there the whole time. While she bent down to pick it up, he openly winced. Why the _fuck_ hadn't he noticed this shit earlier?

There was still the _other_ things, however. "What about those fucking stars of yours and that framed picture? I suppose you got a _convenient_ explanation for why they're gone?"

She did. "I put them in my purse earlier, while you were still asleep. You can check if you want."

No thanks. Knowing his luck, he would find both items there. She was already doing an excellent job of making him look like an idiot _and _an asshole—not that she really needed to exert herself for the latter. He certainly wasn't going to _help_ her.

"Anything else, Trevor?" she asked, as she shoved her cellphone in a hip pocket and turned around to face him. She stood with her head lowered, eyes on his, legs slightly apart, shoulders squared, and one hand closed into a fist; she looked like she was either going to charge at him or punch him. Probably both.

"Uh, let's see... Is have been dotted, Ts have definitely been crossed...nope, we're good." Except Trevor didn't think that was really true because, you know, all the hostile body language. Also, he was still very naked and she hadn't _once_ taken the opportunity to ogle the equipment that had her literally screaming in pleasure hours ago. That was a bad sign. "We _are_ good, right?"

"You should eat something before you get lit," Sonia said. She left out the _and I hope you choke on it_, but it was definitely implied by the contempt he now heard in her voice. It went weird with her blank expression. "And you should do both soon. You're getting twitchy...and _stupid_. I'm gonna be outside."

She stepped past him, but Trevor grabbed hold of her upper arm, feeling the muscle there tense up at the contact. He was fully prepared for her to whirl around and biff him in the nose or perhaps claw his face off, but it didn't come. "I asked you a question, I _expect_ an answer. Are we _good_?"

Her apathetic expression crumbled into a scowl. _Finally_, that face was showing some proper anger, although he saw some hurt too in those glittering black eyes.

Sonia whipped her arm from his grasp. "_Clearly_ you don't trust me. What do you fucking think?!"

"Hey, I _never _said I didn't trust you."

She scoffed. Her lips quivered. "You didn't have to. It was fucking implied. I'm a flight risk, remember?"

_Ugh._ "Whoa, time out. You're taking that _way_ out of-"

"You don't love me."

Trevor pushed the heels of his palms against his eyes, gnashed his teeth together, and let out a loud, exasperated groan. She was wearing down his patience real goddamned quick. "I'm trying _really_ hard to be civil with you, woman, but you're _not_ making it fucking easy by fucking telling me how I fucking _feel_!" He dropped his hands from his face and gave her the glare to end all glares. "And you know something else, I'm getting a little fucking sick of you _doubting_ me!"

"Ditto," she spat back.

"Ooh, no, no, no," he said, wagging a finger at her face. "No ditto. Me thinking you ran off is _not_ the same thing as you doubting me. _Totally_ apples and oranges."

"It's _exactly_ the same thing!" Sonia argued. "You _doubted_ I was coming back!"

"No, I was _sure _you weren't. That's not the same as doubt."

Sonia gaped at him. "Yeah, you're right. It ain't the same thing. You didn't doubt, you weren't uncertain, you were _sure_, which is a hell of a lot worse and brings us back to my original point. You don't trust me, and you can't love someone you don't trust. I don't need years of experience to know that. What do I have to _do _to assure you I'm not going anywhere, Trevor?"

"Well, you could literally shackle yourself to me for a start."

She was not amused. "Be serious."

Trevor heaved out a sigh. "I don't fucking _know_, alright? Maybe nothing. I-"

Her cellphone interrupted. Sonia pulled it from her pocket, glanced at the screen, and said, "It's Brian. I should answer it. He's probably got information on Brice's whereabouts."

"Yeah, fine, whatever," Trevor said bitterly, waving her off. "Go talk to fucking _Brian..._but we're not done here, sunshine."

She didn't say anything as she stepped outside to take the call.

Trevor studied the baggies of crystal he still held, pushing them around his palm with a finger. "Well, why don't we get this fucking party started, eh?"

* * *

"Ah, I had a feeling you weren't dead, Sonia. Lupo's not going to be pleased with you killing his consigliere," said a chuckling voice on the other end of her cellphone.

Sonia clenched her hand tighter around the device as she got that dropped-stomach feeling, like she was heading down the steepest dip on a roller coaster. That was not Brian's voice. That was Paul Pierno's. If Paul had Brian's phone, that could only mean one thing. "What did you do to him? _What did you do to Brian, you bastard_?"

"Relax, Sonia. The Marshal is alive...but for how long depends entirely upon you. I didn't call to exchange harsh words and threats, and I honestly couldn't care less about the Lupo family's enmity with you—that's my father's concern. This is strictly business, Sonia. I have something you care about and you have something I want, so I was thinking we do a little trading."

She was confused. "What could I possibly have that you want?"

"Trevor Philips."

Sonia didn't say anything at first—_couldn't_ say anything, because her heart was suddenly in her throat. She swallowed hard and then asked, "Why?" Of course, it was stupid question. She knew why.

"He's a problem that needs to be eliminated before he causes me and my business partner any undue difficulties. And you're going to deliver him in exchange for Brian Schmidt's life. I know you're fond of the good Marshal." He paused a moment, and then added: "You know what, I'll even forgive you for trying to attack my father at the Lady Luck and killing his bodyguards—no retaliation, you have my word. I'm feeling generous today."

_I also killed your dumbass brother_, Sonia wanted to tell him, for no other reason than to hurt him. But telling him that would _ensure_ that Brian didn't get out of this alive. Apparently Paul didn't _know_ his brother was dead. The body likely hadn't been found yet. "And I'm supposed to just trust your word?" Which she would never do under any circumstances.

"I wouldn't have gotten this far in the business if I wasn't a man of my word, Sonia."

_Bullshit_, she thought. _You've only gotten this far because you're fortunate enough to be the don's son. _She remained silent for a few moments, to give Paul the impression that she was considering_, _then she said, "I want proof of life. Not a photo, I want to _talk_ to Brian."

"I suspected as much," Paul said.

There was a pause, and then the next voice she heard on the other end was Brian's. "Sonia? Izzat you?" He sounded like he had a mouth full of Novocaine, but it was definitely him.

_They've been tuning him up, probably busted his mouth up,_ she thought. "Yeah, Bri, it's me. You okay?"

"Purfit, jus purfit." It was a little hard to understand him, but it sounded like _Perfect, just perfect. "_Der jus beeding da szid ot uv me._" They're just beating the shit out of me. _"I fugt up, Sonia."_ I fucked up, Sonia._

"It's okay, Brian. You're gonna be fine," she tried to reassure him. She wished someone would reassure her.

"Doan giff dem whad dey won." _Don't give them what they want._

Then Brian was gone, replaced by Paul. "So, do we have a deal, Sonia?"

_Never, you slimy motherfucker. _Obviously handing Trevor over was not an option, but neither was turning her back on Brian and leaving him to die. There had to be another way, she just needed time to find it. For now, let Paul think she was still the same old backstabbing Sonia. "If you want that lunatic, he's yours, but I need some time to figure out a way to do it. He doesn't trust me." _And I'm not even lying about that one._

"Oh, so he does possess _some_ intelligence."

Sonia ignored that. "You know, I'm surprised you're not just asking me to kill him for you." She wasn't surprised at all. Paul wasn't asking her to kill Trevor for the same reason he wasn't asking her where he might be at presently so he could get rid of him sooner rather than later. Because he wanted _both_ of them together in the same place, to kill them.

"Brice wants that job for himself, apparently. Says he wants to make use of that tattoo on Philips's neck. Whatever that means."

Sonia pictured that prison-fine tattoo and its ridiculous instructions—_cut here_—and laughed in spite of herself. "And he's probably not the first to want to. Well? You gonna give me time or not?"

Paul got quiet a moment, probably considering—or wanting her to _think_ he was considering. Then: "You've got until eight o'clock tomorrow morning. No later or Brian dies. No _weapons_ or Brian dies. I'll contact you soon with the location. You're betraying the _right_ person this time, Sonia." He said that mockingly. "I've heard plenty of stories about him since I've been out here in San Andreas, most of which I don't doubt the validity of. He's an old, rabid dog that needs to be put down."

She laughed again, only this time it wasn't genuine. It was cold and mean. "And the only thing that could possibly make him any worse is if he murdered innocent little kids like your monster of a father."

The silence on the other end was as glacial as her laugh. Then: "If memory serves—and it does—_you're_ the one who got Marshal Schmidt's son killed. It was your act of betrayal that led to it."

Sonia hung up on him, seething. She was about to put her phone away when it beeped, alerting her to a text message. It was from Brian's phone. When she opened it, there was a question: _Are you going to get the father killed too? _Below the question was a photo of Brian, tied up to a chair, his face swollen and bruised and bloody. Behind him, somebody in a suit held a butcher's knife to his throat.


	26. Chapter 25: Sonia's Plan

**A/N: **_Yeah, I know, I'm late updating again. Shit's been going on, you know how it is. But I've got a longer chapter for you today, if that's any consolation._

_Hope y'all had a good Thanksgiving. Christmas is just right around the corner now! I've already written my letter to Santa, asking him to deliver Kit Harrington(preferably buck-naked) to my house. I've been extra good this year, so...*crosses fingers*_

* * *

**Chapter Twenty-Five: Sonia's Plan**

* * *

Upon entering the motel room after that unpleasant chitchat with Paul Pierno, Sonia caught a faint whiff of a sharp, chemical odor and regarded the thin, unstable fog of smoke floating over the room. She turned her attention to the source, the man sitting at the foot of the bed they had shared. He was now half-dressed, wearing only his filthy blue jeans, and was in the midst of pulling on his work boots with jittery hands. His glass pipe was clamped between his teeth, sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Every couple of seconds he puffed on it, the foul smoke curling up from his lips into his eyes, making him squint.

"Doesn't that burn, smoking it fast like that?" Sonia asked as she stepped further into the room, pulling the door shut behind her.

The man took a longer hit from his pipe this time, then dropped it beside him on the bed, not at all concerned that it might catch the cheap linen on fire. When he spoke his voice was hoarse, his tone cold. "Like a motherfucker, but that's half the fun."

"How is it, the ice?" She already knew how the ice was; whether it was actually shit quality or not, he would say it was, because she'd made an ass out of him with it earlier. She asked simply to stall the inevitable, because the inevitable was not going to be fun, at least for her. Dealing with Paul had been the easy part. The hard part was figuring out how to handle his so-called trade and getting Trevor to agree to it. He didn't seem to be a fan of her plans, and undoubtedly he would want to handle his enemies the good ol' fashion Trevor Philips way—an honest, head-on, last-man-standing bloodbath. Only Paul was a bit more subtle than that; he was underhanded, and just as unpredictable as Trevor. In a sense, that made him more dangerous. So they _needed_ to be prepared for anything, whether Trevor liked it or not.

"I could've gotten a quicker high huffing house paint, but I suppose it's the _thought_ that counts," the man said, now sounding downright mocking.

"Oh, no need to thank me. I wouldn't want you to strain yourself," she riposted.

Trevor released a rumbling grunt that roughly translated to _fuck off, you're bothering me. _

Sonia, who did not speak caveman, breathed out a long sigh and came to stand in the middle of the room. _Might as well get on with it._ "We have problems, Trev."

"Oh, you _noticed_, did you? What, pray tell, clued you in?"

Sonia felt a spark of irritation at his impudent tone and checked herself._ He's in one of his moods; just ignore it._

She took her phone out of her hip pocket, pulled up that photo of a beaten up Brian, and tossed the device over to him. It landed on the bed, at his right. "It was Paul, not Brian." She pointed to her phone. "He called from Brian's phone and sent that via text."

He didn't bother taking the cellphone in hand, merely cocked his head and glanced at the screen. The image of the ex-Marshal in his unfortunate and obviously painful condition caused Trevor's cranky mood to perform a volte-face.

He cackled, eyes flashing with savage satisfaction.

Sonia put her hands on her hips and waited for his fit of mirth to pass. She wasn't surprised by his reaction; sometimes he was so damn predictable for a man who was supposed to be _un_predictable by nature.

When the laughter subsided, Trevor regarded her unamused expression, got annoyed all over again at her refusal to see the hilarity in a _clearly_ hilarious turn of events, and said, "Would you pull that stick outta your ass and lighten the fuck up? Look at it this way: the bastard caught a lucky break."

She frowned, confused. "He did? How the hell is being kidnapped by mafiosi and beaten nearly unrecognizable a 'lucky break'?"

He shrugged and leaned over a knee to tie the laces of one boot. "You recall what I said would happen to him if he didn't have that Murphy cocksucker gift wrapped for me, don't you?"

"His innards would be pulled out through his throat," Sonia answered as she ogled the pleasant way the muscles in his arms flexed when he yanked those frayed laces into a strong knot.

"Close enough. Clearly he failed to hold up his end of the deal. So, yeah, I think we can both agree he was_ lucky_ he got caught by themand not me."

Sonia might have pointed out that Brian didn't fail onpurpose, but she had a feeling Trevor wouldn't care.

The man glanced over at the photo again, this time out of mild curiosity. He added: "They've kept him alive for a reason. I gather you know why."

She nodded. "Paul wants to do a trade with me. You for Brian."

"What?!" Trevor burst, outraged by the obvious insult to his worth. "Me...for _Brian_? Are you fuckin' shittin' me? I am definitely worth more than a _Brian_." He did a double take, giving her an uncertain, inquiring look. "Right?"

Her brow furrowed. "What exactly are you asking?"

He shrugged and put his hands out in a gesture that seemed to say _isn't it obvious?_ "Which one of us means more to you."

Sonia stiffened in anger and clenched her jaw. She wanted to hit him for that, the bastard, but once again she checked herself, scowling at him. "That's not _fair!"_

Trevor laughed at the childish declaration. He held his arms out wide. "Welcome to life, my dear, where very little is ever fucking fair!"

She rolled her eyes and spat, "Spare me your 'worldly wisdom', Trevor; I'm well aware of how unfair life is. Be that as it may, you can't ask me that."

He hoicked his brows and straightened his back. "Funny, I just _did, a_nd I expect you to fucking answer me. It's a simple question."

"No, it's a _complicated_ question. You and Brian can't be compared because you're both important to me for entirely different reasons. He's my friend, he's been there for me when I really needed it—"

"And I _haven't_?" Trevor cut in, narrowing his eyes. "So it must have been some _other_ Trevor who came to your fucking rescue?"

"That's not what I was implying. Would you just shut up and let me _finish_?"

His mouth tightened with displeasure. He whirled a hand for her to proceed, and growled out, "Oh, by all means,_ go on." _Then, darker and more threatening: "Your funeral."

"I'm also responsible for his son's death, his _eight-year-old_ son, who's never gonna experience that first kiss from his first love, learn to drive, graduate high school..."Her voice wavered and she felt tears pricking at her eyes. Sonia willed them back and soldiered on. "Now I have to somehow do the impossible; I _need_ to make up for that, I have to try. And the only way I can even come close is to get Brian safely back home to what's left of his family."

The tears came back, full force, bigger than her will this time. Sonia covered her eyes with a hand and turned away, rebuking herself for not being able to hold it together. Trevor was the _last_ person she wanted to see her like this—_weak_.

With her back still turned to him, she cleared out the knot in her throat and went on, "And you...you've done things for me—good things, _significant_ things—that I honestly never would've expected you to do."

"That makes two of us," Trevor muttered. He hadn't been feeling much like himself since he'd done those things.

"And those things only made me love you more; they...sealed the deal, I guess you could say." Sonia paused for a minute, then she turned to face him, her wet eyes engaging his. "Brian's my friend, the only_ real_ friend I've ever had, and I owe him, more than I can ever repay. But I love _you_. If you asked me to leave him to his fate, I would do it, even knowing it would destroy me. If you asked me to jump in front of a train for you, I would do it. I don't know what that says about me, but..." She shrugged, leaving it at that.

Trevor stared at her for several moments, wearing his best poker face, not saying anything. He felt something warm spread through his chest at what she was telling him, yet at the same time he wasn't entirely certain he believed it, that anyone could ever love him _that_ much. A part of him wanted to tell her to leave the dumb bastard to his fate, just to make her prove to him that she wasn't full of shit. Another part was fucking terrified of what might happen if he did; what if she _did_ do it, and what if it _did_ destroy her? Was he willing to take that risk just for the confirmation that she did indeed love him as much as she claimed? The answer was no; what good was the confirmation if he lost her? He was crazy, but not _that _crazy.

"Don't say shit like that," he said at last, "not unless you mean it. I'm fucking serious."

Sonia dragged her palms across her face, erasing the wet trails. "I do mean it, even knowing that you're getting the better end of the deal."

The implication he heard in her words didn't sit well with him. "What the fuck is that supposed to mean?"

"You say you love me, and maybe in some way you do, but it's not..._whole_. There's something missing, and we both know what it is. You're getting _everything_ I have to give, but it feels like you're only giving back whatever's convenient for you."

The moment that word left her mouth, Trevor was floored. "Con..." Then his shock quickly gave way to naked anger. How fucking _dare_ she! "_Convenient_?!"

Trevor moved so suddenly it startled her; one moment he was sitting on the edge of the bed, the next he was standing in front of her, many shades of furious.

The backside of his right hand wound over his left shoulder in one lightning-quick motion; he wanted to knock that word right back into her fucking mouth.

_Convenient_! None of what he had given of himself and was _still_ giving was anywhere close to being convenient for him. In fact, it was fucking him up, splitting him into two different people; there was the chaotic madman he knew and now the stranger he didn't, some desperate, _weak_ offshoot that wanted to make her happy, that couldn't bear to lose her and was terrified a day would come when he might seriously hurt or even kill her. He wasn't sure which was worse, the fact that she was ruining him or the fact that he was letting it happen.

Sonia tensed at the danger, but stifled any move to defend herself. A part of her—that great foolish part that inextricably loved him and therefore had faith in him—was trusting him not to land that blow.

The threatening hand twitched, froze. Trevor squeezed his fingers into a fist, and whether it was out of some effort of restraint or he'd changed his mind and decided to slug her instead, she couldn't tell.

They stared at each other.

He was holding his breath, wondering if he was going to slug her too. She was holding hers.

Then, slowly, as if _she_ were the perilous beast with its dander up, Trevor sidled away from her, then backpedaled in the direction of the door. He finally exhaled that breath he'd been holding with a wobbly sigh and lowered his fist. He looked at it as if it were some alien object that didn't belong on the end of his arm.

The silence was palpable, tense, seemingly immortal.

Sonia stared at the carpet, digging the toe of one sneaker into the fibers.

Across the room, Trevor squeezed his temples with thumb and forefinger and cursed under his breath. Oh, how he wished the distance between them was miles instead of feet.

Then they were speaking at the same time. "I'm sorry—" "Listen—"

Sonia looked up at him. Trevor dropped his hand from his head and stared back at her, his face unreadable.

She waited.

Despite the meth now in his system, Trevor felt tired, as if that effort of restraint had taken everything out of him, including the high. He didn't know if he could do that again if it came to it. Or _ever_ again, for that matter. "Listen, angel," he said, his tone a shade softer. "I...I feel like I'm losing my mind here, like I don't know who I am or what the fuck I'm doing anymore, and it's _your_ fault. And I really need some fucking _space_ right now, y'know?"

"You want me to leave?" Sonia asked quietly, dropping her gaze to the carpet again.

"No, I want you to _stay put_ and refrain from doing anything fucking _stupid_ while I'm gone—no taking on the mob without me again, you got it? I may decide you're not worth saving a second time."

"How long—" she started to ask, but he was already out the door, marching across the parking lot.

Sonia closed the door a moment later, then stared at it, thinking worriedly: _He's never called me 'angel' before. _The last time he'd called her something he never had he confessed to being in love with her and that had changed everything. Maybe it meant nothing, but what if it did? What if that seemingly harmless term of endearment was a tip off that everything was about to change again, only this time for the worse?

* * *

Brice stood in the threshold of the ranch house's master bedroom, leaning against the door jamb, arms folded across his wide chest. His presence went unnoticed by the men inside the bedroom—Paul Pierno, Goon One and Goon Two, and the battered man they had tied to the only piece of a furniture available, an old chair with a lame leg. That was, until Goon One, the taller guy wielding the butcher's knife, came to stand behind the beaten-up ex-Marshal and posed for a picture, holding the huge blade to the man's throat. As soon as Paul had taken the photo, the goon made eye contact with Brice and frowned.

"Boss?" Goon One spoke. When Paul glanced up at him, he pointed his knife at the doorway.

The Boss poked at the buttons on his phone as he turned to face Brice, then slipped the device into the right pocket of his black, pin-striped slacks. "Yes? Something you need? Or did you only come to watch Marshal Schmidt receive his just desserts?" And as he said this, Goon Two made a fist and whacked it across the bridge of the ex-Marshal's nose. The man groaned as blood began pouring out of his nostrils, dribbling over his lips and chin and staining the top of his shirt.

"How's that feel, Marshal Dickhead?" Goon Two taunted angrily. He had ink-black hair that was slicked back from his long forehead with what probably amounted to an entire bottle of styling gel. He had good, strong features, and could have been considered handsome if not for the pink, jagged scar tissue that hooked across his left cheek from temple to nose. Unlike his boss and thug counterpart, who were both sporting smart suits, he was dressed casually in jeans, a black t-shirt, and a brown leather bomber jacket with the sleeves pulled up to his elbows. Probably so he didn't get blood on them.

"This ain't even _half_ of what you deserve for killing Remo, John, and Freddy!" Goon Two went on in his fury, bending over to get into the ex-Marshal's face. "Nobody fucks with Pierno's men, motherfucker!"

Schmidt groaned out something that might have been _they threatened my family. _He spat a mouthful of blood directly, _intentionally_, onto the goon's shoes. When he spoke this time, it came out full of his own fury and clear enough to be understood, "One of them killed my son!"

Goon Two leaned back and lifted one shoe to wipe off the bloody saliva along the leg of Schmidt's pants, then did the same with the other. That done, he drew back his fist again and cracked it across Schmidt's already busted mouth. A stream of blood flew in an arc from his split lips. His head lolled forward, as if he were on the brink of losing consciousness. Instead, he spat out a tooth. It rattled on the seat of the chair, between his legs.

Brice watched all this with disinterest, then turned his attention back to Paul. "You think she'll do it?" He had of course heard Paul's entire phone conversation with that cunt-bitch who'd almost gotten him killed. "You really think she'll betray Philips for this guy? Those two seemed real _chummy_ when I saw 'em together at the Mojito Inn."

Paul Pierno, who stared down at the battered man sitting in the chair, gave a faint smile. "She's betrayed people she was 'chummy' with before. If her fear for Marshal Schmidt's life doesn't get her to do it, her guilt will."

Brice frowned, not understanding. "Guilt?"

"Despite her penchant for treachery, she _does_ possess principles," Paul explained. "Shocking, I know, but there you have it. One of those principles is to never cause harm to or kill children. When she betrayed her boss, it resulted in the death of the good Marshal's eight-year-old son—"

Schmidt moaned out some incoherent words and jerked in his chair. Goon Two struck him again while Goon One looked on, smiling. Schmidt's head lolled forward again, chin almost touching his chest. Now he was losing consciousness. A stream of bloody spit drooled from a corner of his slack, wounded mouth.

Paul continued, "I'm sure she hadn't meant for that to happen, but it did. She _must_ be carrying around a lot of guilt. And now that Marshal Schmidt here is in danger, she no doubt feels it is her responsibility to save him, to move toward making up for his son's untimely death. She _won't_ let him die, that I'm sure of."

Brice folded his arms at his chest, giving the mafioso a frown of uncertainty. "And what makes you think she and Philips ain't puttin' their heads together right now, comin' up with a way to counter your plan?"

Paul smiled his slimy, open-mouthed smile. His small, dark eyes gleamed shrewdly. He reminded Brice of a shark, a Great White one. "I hope they are; I _want_ them to think they will win. It will make their deaths that much more satisfying. You see, Brice, all I need is for them both to show up wherever I decide this 'trade' will go down, and I have no doubt they will." He waved a hand at Schmidt. "The Marshal here is going to take care of the rest."

Brice frowned again. "I don't understand."

"You don't _need_ to understand, Brice. You need to focus on your gear." Paul snapped his fingers. "Speaking of which..." He stepped past Brice through the doorway, looking at the gold watch on his wrist, as if he'd suddenly realized he'd lost track of time and wondered how much. "I still need to pay you for the product you provided me with, don't I?"

"Yeah, that's usually how business works," Brice said caustically. "And as I recall, you _took_ it, I didn't provide it."

Paul ignored that as he started down the decrepit hallway. "Let us give Marshal Schmidt some privacy and attend to our business, shall we?"

Brice heaved out a sigh, pushed himself away from the door jamb, and followed.

They come out into the living area, where two more of Paul's goons were standing around. Brice didn't like it. Not only was this wop bastard trying to take over his business, but now it seemed like he was trying to take over his new home too.

One of the goons had a duffel bag slung over his shoulder, both of them were armed, guns in hand. He didn't like _that_, either.

Brice had his own gun on him, tucked in the waist of his jeans, but it wouldn't do him much good when he was outnumbered. And his brother was down in the lab with Alice, too far away to call to. With all the noise that went on down there, it was also doubtful Rick would hear a gun shot if one went off.

Paul clapped his hands together, his slimy smile in place again. "By the way, my delivery boys sent the product back to our network of dealers in Las Venturas. They were very pleased, said we should turn a hefty profit."

"Good for you," Brice replied dismissively. "The money?"

"Right." Paul looked at the goon with the duffel bag and the man dropped it on the coffee table. The thump it made was light, the bag didn't look very full. Brice liked that even less.

He reached for the zipper just as Paul said, "Forty thousand for fifty pounds."

Brice froze. He felt a spark of anger deep in his chest, setting a fire there that quickly spread, raging through every part of him. His eyes darted up to Paul's. "I hope for your sake that this is only a fraction of it, and you mean to pay the rest soon."

"Not at all," Paul said calmly. "I think this is a fair enough discount on the original price in exchange for saving your brother's life, don't you?"

"Forty thousand for fifty pounds...that's eight-hundred a pound!" Brice roared at him. His heart pounded so hard he could feel it in his teeth. His temples throbbed painfully and he could taste metal on his tongue; he wondered briefly if he was having a stroke. "That's less than what you'd pay for shit quality!" He grabbed the duffel and threw it at Paul's chest. "Nobody tries fucking me over like this, I don't care who the fuck you think you are!" Then he was reaching for his gun without even thinking. Thinking had been canceled; he was no longer a man who possessed the ability. He was an emotion, a solid, living feeling; he was rage.

His hand circled the grip of his pistol, squeezing and then pulling to extract the weapon from the waist of his jeans. He saw the goons in his field of vision, but they did not compute in his mind. Only Paul did; Paul, who must pay for his affront.

But an instant later, Brice found himself wedged up against a wall. His chest was throbbing. His arms were held firmly behind his back by one goon as the other pried the gun from his rigid fingers.

Brice growled and drove his foot back at the goon standing directly behind him. It connected with the man's knee and sent him stumbling back with a grunt.

Brice turned, lowered his shoulders, and cannoned into the bastard.

They both hit the floorboards, flailing at each other's limbs. Brice rolled on top of the guy and wasted no time, pummeling him with a fist, over and over. That first stroke had left the goon dazed, unable to fight back against the brutal assault that followed. His head jerked side to side from the force of Brice's fists. His face was beginning to look like hamburger. The continuous onslaught of blows tore open the stitches in Brice's belly, but he felt nothing.

He didn't even feel it when the other goon came up on him, bashed him over the head with his gun, and turned his world to darkness.

* * *

An hour and a half came and went.

Sonia got tired of waiting around inside the motel room, so she grabbed up all their shit, which amounted to a duffel bag, her purse, his glass meth pipe and the blood-stained shirt he'd forgotten to put on before departing, and took it all outside. Today was check out day, anyway.

The old Washington that had carried her to her near-death in Pueblo Rojo was still parked in its space. Wherever Trevor had gone, he had either done it on foot or hijacked another vehicle.

Sonia put their stuff in the back seat of the car, retrieved a thousand in cash from the duffel bag, then went to the front office to return the key and pay for the damages to the room. Likely Trevor would notice the money missing, as he had the first time, but she would just remind him that _he_ was the one who destroyed the room and _she_ sure as hell wasn't having the damages taken out of her bank account.

Back at the car, Sonia got in behind the steering wheel and rolled down the window. She fished out her cellphone, a crumpled pack of Redwoods and a lighter from her pockets. She lit herself a cigarette, then unlocked her phone to see if she had any texts or missed calls. There were none.

She did a mobile web search for the phone number to the Bayview Lodge around Paleto Bay. With Brian held hostage by Paul Pierno, Ruth Weatherby had no one to look in on her, but maybe the guy at the front desk would be kind enough to do it or at least give Sonia the room's phone number so she could talk to her. No doubt she was worried by Brian's sudden absence.

Once she found the number, she dialed it in. The guy picked up on the second ring.

"Bayview Lodge. How may I help you this fine evenin'?"

"Yeah, hi, I booked room ten for a week for myself and my, uh, grandmother, but I had an out-of-town emergency," Sonia explained as best she could. "A friend of mine was supposed to look in on Grandma, but he's...indisposed. I was wondering if you might be able to check on her...you know, make sure she's okay and has everything she needs."

"Sure, I don't see any problem doin' that. I can give you the number to the room too, if you want."

"That'd be great."

The man recited the digits for her and Sonia repeated them back, for her memory as well as to make sure she had them right.

"I told her not to open the door for anyone but me and my friend," she said afterward. "So I'll call ahead and tell her to let you in. If she does need anything, I will, of course, compensate you for it when I get back in town tomorrow morning."

"Don't worry about that. Glad to do it. I'll bring her some tomato bisque from the diner. The diner makes _fantastic_ tomato bisque," the man offered.

That made her smile. "That's very generous of you. Thank you."

"The world could use a lot more kindness, I say, especially the older generation. They're all but forgotten, unless the younger folk are lookin' for someone to blame for the rotten state of the world." He laughed. "Well, listen to me, yammerin' on. You go on and call your meemaw while I'm gettin' her that soup."

"Okay."

Sonia ended the call, then dialed the room's telephone number. It rang once, twice, thrice, then picked up.

"Hello? Who's this? I ain't expectin' any calls," said Ruth's elderly alto voice. Sonia could hear the TV chattering in the background, so it seemed like not much had changed since she'd left.

"Hey, Ruth, it's Sonia."

"Sonia? Heavens, child! I ain't heard from you in _days_. Ain't heard from you, Trevor, or that Brian fella. So, y'all haven't forgotten 'bout me, left me here to rot in this motel room after all."

Sonia supposed that really couldn't be considered a guilt trip if you already felt guilty. "I'm sorry. Of course we haven't forgotten you." Not really true, but at least she had a good excuse. "We've just been busy. Didn't Brian tell you?"

"He jus' said you and Trevor were goin' off to Las Venturas, nothin' 'bout why. This was before he jus' up and disappeared on me a day ago, ain't seen 'im since." There was a short pause, and then: "You two didn't elope, did'ja? It'd be plenty _inconsiderate_ if you did, not invitin' me to the ceremony."

Sonia rolled her eyes. She liked the old bat, but dear God. "No, Ruth, we didn't elope. How are you doing?"

"Oh, I'm doin' fine. A lil' lonely with only the TV to keep me company. Are you gonna be gettin' back soon?"

"Tomorrow morning. We still have some things to do, but we'll drop by and say hello when we get back to San Andreas. Are you remembering to take your pills?"

The old woman harrumphed. "Yes, I ain't useless. I can function."

"_Okay_, okay," Sonia soothed. "Well, there's a nice man coming to visit you in a few minutes. He works at the motel. He's gonna bring you some tomato bisque and check in on you from time to time, just until we get back. Maybe you can ask him to play Scrabble with you once he gets off work."

"I might just do that..."

They talked for a few more minutes about this and that, then the man came to the door and Ruth said she had to go.

Sonia stared at her phone afterward, gnawing on her bottom lip, trying to decide whether or not she should call Trevor next and attempt to coax him back to the motel. He'd been gone for a little over an hour and a half now, but he had a habit of disappearing for longer, sometimes _days_.

Paul had given her until eight tomorrow morning to cede to his demands. It was a little after seven in the PM now, that gave them thirteen hours to get back to San Andreas, come up with a plan and do whatever necessary preparations for it.

She decided on just a text for now, telling him she was sorry for upsetting him, that she didn't want to hurt him, that she was worried about him, all of which was true.

Sonia didn't expect him to answer back, but after a few minutes he did and with a text that made her more concerned: _worry about urself. _

_I don't care about myself. I care about you_, she sent back.

She waited for a response and didn't get one this time.

Sighing, Sonia put her phone up on the dashboard and took a long drag from her cigarette. While she felt guilty for what she'd said to him earlier, about him only giving back what was convenient, it hadn't been an entirely unfair assessment. It seemed like he was giving her only what was comfortable for him to give; the physical intimacy and the occasional affectionate words. Yes, he had also done uncharacteristically kind things for her and saved her ass, but while those things were important to her, they weren't enough to make the relationship stronger and lasting. That required the one thing he wasn't giving her: trust.

And she had no idea how to earn it, or if it could even be earned. Maybe he'd been burnt too many times to take the risk again.

_There's no point thinking about it now_, Sonia thought. _You're just gonna drive yourself crazy. He's the only one who can answer that question._

So she focused on the Paul problem instead.

Sonia turned the car key to engage the ignition and switched on the radio, because music helped her think. She surfed through the channels until she came to a classic rock station, where Bob Seger was singing _Turn the Page._

Sonia smoked another cigarette, closed her eyes, and let the gears in her head turn, turn, turn. For some moments it seemed like nothing was going to catch; maybe it would best to wait on Trevor, then they could come up with something together—two heads are better than one and all that shit. Then the metaphorical light bulb blinked on.

Her eyes snapped open, widened. She laughed at her stupidity.

A plan had been under her nose the entire time.

* * *

She must have fallen asleep in the car, though she didn't remember doing it.

Someone had a hand on her shoulder, jostling her into consciousness. Sonia shifted closer to the driver's side door and let out a groggy, irritated groan at the disturbance. "_Nnnh_, lea me 'lone."

The hand followed her, shaking, shaking, _shaking_.

"Are you awake yet?" the shaker asked.

Sonia immediately recognized the voice. Not really wanting to, she stirred from her slumped position in the seat and said "Okay, okay, I'm up" through a yawn.

She rubbed her eyes and turned her head to look at the inconsiderate jerk who'd disturbed her cat nap. Trevor was settling back into the passenger seat, staring out the windshield at nothing in particular. There was an angry-red patch high up on his cheek that was trying to bruise, some blood and cuts on his knuckles that hadn't been there earlier, so he'd apparently taken his frustrations out on someone. It seemed it hadn't done much good, however. He looked a few degrees less angry, but he was still clearly unhappy.

Sonia reached over to put her hand on his shoulder. He must've seen the movement out of the corner of his eye, for he caught her by the wrist before she could make contact and finally looked at her.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

Was he _okay_? No, he wasn't even in the general vicinity of okay, but Trevor lied all the same. "I'm fine," he muttered as he released her arm and pushed it away from him.

"I didn't mean to upset you before."

"Oh, really? And yet you're _always_ upsetting me; pushing my buttons, intentionally winding me up. Help me out here, sunshine. Do you have a death wish or are you just fuckin' stupid?"

"It's not intentional _all_ the time; when it is, it's because _you've_ wound _me_ up or... okay, _maybe_ I like pushing you. And maybe sometimes I like when you push back. Maybe I like knowing that what we do or say to each other matters enough to have an effect. But it _wasn't_ intentional before, it's just how I feel." Sonia tried to reach for him again, and again he pushed her away. She frowned. "I'm sorry it upset you."

"So, what's the deal?" Trevor asked, changing the subject. "What're you doin' about your buddy Paul? I'm sure in my brief absence you came up with a plan." He snorted derisively. "I mean, that's your _thing_, right?" He put his hands up as if he were about to pitch an advertising slogan for the next hot product. "_Plans—God forbid Sonia ever do anything without one_."

"I'm gonna trade you for Brian," she said.

He dropped his hands in his lap and eyed her, not liking it. "Excuse me, _what_? I'm going to assume that's a really bad fucking joke."

"It's what I told Paul I was gonna do."

"Okay..."

Sonia shrugged. "I told him that you don't trust me, which ain't exactly a lie. I said that it was going to require a bit of time for me to come up with a way to get you to him without arousing your suspicion. Whether or not he bought it, I don't know, but he gave me until eight tomorrow morning. His conditions are that it be no later than that or he would kill Brian, and no weapons or he would kill Brian."

"Okay, and where is this 'trade' supposed to happen?"

"He said he'd call soon with the location." She reached into the center console and pulled a cigarette from her crumpled back. The stick of tobacco was bent out of shape some but not broken. She straightened it out with her fingers. "Obviously he wants you dead, but it ain't _just_ about you—"

"Of course not," Trevor agreed. "There's still a certain lovely brown-haired, black-eyed rat running loose that needs to be exterminated."

"Well, he _claimed_ he has no interest in the Lupo family's enmity with me, that that's his father's stake, but it's his duty as son and underboss to make sure Daddy gets what Daddy wants. I'm sure Daddy also wants Brian dead for killing three of his finest goons. This whole trade is just a sham to get us all together in the same place so he can have us taken out."

"If that's all it is, I fail to see why we need a plan. I mean, all we gotta do is show up, locked and loaded, and unleash hell on the motherfuckers. His side won't stand a chance." Trevor banged an angry, excited fist on the dashboard. "Gonna fucking destroy them!"

"You fail to see why because you're not seeing the bigger picture. There's an opportunity here to not only take out Paul and whatever goons he has with him, but the Murphy brothers too. The plan I have will most certainly bring the bastards out of whatever hole Paul has them hiding in, and Paul's gonna bring them out himself. He's not gonna have a choice."

Trevor turned to face her fully, planting a hand against the shoulder of her seat. His interest was now fully piqued. "Alrighty, _now_ I'm listening. Let's hear the details..."

She angled her body toward his, her cigarette forgotten for the time being. "I was thinking about something Paul told me when we talked. He said 'you have something I want, and I have something you care about'; he was talking about you and Brian. We're gonna beat him at his own game, in a way he won't expect. We do what we came out here to do: kidnap Joe Pierno. Then we have something he cares about, and enough negotiating advantage to change the trade on our terms. Joe for Brian and the Murphys."

Trevor's face fell. He sighed and shook his head in disappointment. "And you started out so well; actually thought you had a _good_ plan this time. One man for three others, two of which are his _business partners_? That ain't gonna fucking happen. He'd have to be the biggest moron on the planet to accept that trade."

"He doesn't have a choice, like I said. Joe's too valuable to him; he's his father and the don of a mafia family."

Trevor scoffed. "When has that ever mattered? You said the son's next in line to the family throne, right? Blood may be thicker than water, but the thirst for power is thicker than blood. Types like that, they'd _literally_ eat their own kids if it made them powerful."

"Except Paul's not that type. He doesn't _have_ to be," Sonia said. "He's the underboss, the second in command. How much power that position affords is different for every family, and the don decides it. Since Paul is Joe's son, he gets to wield a _lot_ of power; he can make family decisions without his father's consent. The only privilege he doesn't have is representing the family at the Committee, and he was never fond of the Committee. So I doubt he's thirsty."

Trevor chewed his lower lip, seeming to consider everything she had told him. Then he said, "So, if I've got this straight, we're gonna make him an offer he can't refuse?" His mouth twitched as if he were restraining a smile. "Way to live up to those mafia clichés, sweetheart."

Sonia grinned. "Bite me."

"Don't tempt me," he warned, shaking a finger at her, only half-joking. "You realize this plan of yours is probably gonna go to shit, right? I'm speaking from a fuck-ton of experience here, sunshine, they almost _always_ go to shit one way or another."

She nodded. "Little chance of success, huge chance of dying. Not much different from the usual odds, is it?" She narrowed her eyes at him playfully. "Don't tell me the reckless and fearless Trevor Philips is afraid of the risk."

He narrowed his eyes right back. Not playfully, but threateningly. "Don't make me make you eat those words. I'm just warning _you_ of the risk. Always keep your expectations low; that way, when the proverbial shit hits the proverbial fan, you won't disappointed. And we wouldn't want _that_ now, would we?"

Sonia chose to ignore his mocking tone. "So, I guess that means you're in?"

"I'm still sitting here, so yes, I guess that's what it means."

"Good. That's all I needed to know." Sonia smiled, reached into the backseat for his shirt, tossed it in his lap. "Put that on and let's go kidnap us a mafia don."

Trevor looked at the grimy garment, then at her. "You're not gonna start _dressing_ me, are you?"

"No," she said as she started the car's engine. "I just don't wanna get distracted at the wrong moment."

Trevor didn't understand what she'd meant at first. "Wha..." Then it hit him. "_Oh_. Uhh...right."

Sonia frowned at him as he pulled his shirt on over his head. That should've provoked some kind of raunchy remark or lewd proposition from him, as was usual. At the least, it should've gotten her ribbed. The fact that none of those things were happening was just fucking _weird_.

"Are you _sure_ you're okay?"

He really wished she would just _stop_ asking him that. "Do I gotta fuckin' hammer it into your goddamn head? I'm fucking _fine_!" Trevor snapped. "Now stop annoying me! C'mon, go! _Drive_!..._Fuck_."

* * *

Forty minutes later, Sonia braked the Washington outside of a four-story, tumbledown tenement, which sat in the midst of a neglected, indigent neighborhood three blocks from the city's industrial sector. The smoke stacks from one factory could be seen from the apartment building, jutting toward the night like brobdingnagian cigars, puffing their cloudy pollution into the air.

Night was beginning to settle now and the street lamps were just starting to flicker on, casting their sickly yellow glow on the cracked road and sidewalks. A man wearing a hoodie with the hood pulled over his downcast head moved briskly past the Washington on the sidewalk, hands stuffed in his pockets. Nearby, some kids were playing basketball on a weedy court. On the corner of the street, a woman in a hot-pink halter top, mini skirt, fishnet stockings, and stiletto heels leaned in the passenger window of a bright blue Peyote idling near the curb.

Trevor studied the miserable surroundings through the passenger window and remarked, "Jesus, this neighborhood makes south-central LS look like Rockford Hills. Are we slumming for drugs and prostitutes or are we here for something else?" He looked at her hopefully. "Please say drugs and prostitutes."

"We couldn't get Joe where he works, but maybe we can get him where he lives," Sonia said. "I've never been to his house, but maybe the guy who lives here will know where it is. He used to be his landscaper, probably still is. He's also a smackhead, so getting clear answers out of him might be difficult if he's high."

"A smackhead? So, a friend of yours, then?"

"Uh, no, I wouldn't say a friend exactly."

Judging by the glower Trevor gave her, he disapproved of that answer. "Then what, _exactly_?"

Sonia didn't answer, choosing instead to exit the old car and head for the cement stairs leading up to the tenement's entrance.

Somewhere in the neighborhood a dog barked. At the basketball court, the young players laughed and shouted.

From inside the building came a baby's squalling, the _thumpthumpthump _of electronica music, and a man and woman screaming back and forth at each other.

Trevor came up the steps behind her and continued his interrogation. "You sleep with this guy? You _did_, didn't you?"

Sonia ignored him. She opened the front door to the polemic woman's shout of "_You want fucking dinner, go fix it yourself, you lazy shit! I'm trying to feed the baby!_" and stepped into a dimly lit hallway covered in graffiti and stinking of urine. There was a set of stairs to the right of the door, and a man dressed in raggedy clothes was sprawled halfway up them, face down. Probably unconscious from drugs or alcohol, or both. Or he was dead.

"_Coulda had dinner ready hours ago if you didn't have to sit your fat ass down to watch those fucking soap operas_!" the polemic man shot back.

"_I'm sorry I like to unwind after a hard day at work, Mr. fucking _Umemployed!"

"_Oh, you just _had_ to bring that up, didn't you, Marie? I was fucking laid off, and the economy is _shit_! It's not my fault I can't find a fucking job, so _stop busting my balls_!"_

Sonia and Trevor climbed the stairs to the second floor, stepping over the unconscious(or possibly dead) man, and came to another hallway similar to the one at ground level. The fluorescent lights in the ceiling buzzed and flickered wildly, sickeningly, like an epileptic's worst nightmare.

"_My mother was right about you! You're a fucking deadbeat, ne'er-do-well_!"

"_You watch your fucking mouth, Marie, or I'm gonna come in there and knock it off your goddamn face_!"

"_Try it! You go on and try, and see if I don't cut off your tiny balls and staple them to your fucking forehead, you no-good _bastard!"

"Ah, marital _bliss_!" Trevor laughed sarcastically.

They climbed up to the third level, and Sonia led the way down the corridor with its chipped paint and grimy floor. A rat almost the size of a cat scurried alongside the wall and disappeared into the shadows. The screaming upstairs seemed to have finally come to an end. The baby went on wailing.

Sonia stepped over a dried puddle on the floor that might or might not have been vomit mixed with blood and came to a stop in front of a door labeled _14B. _She raised a fist, rapped on the wood, and waited.

There was no answer.

Frowning, she knocked again, harder, and yelled out, "Chris! Open up! It's an old friend!"

"Thought you said he wasn't a friend?" Trevor sneered, leaning a shoulder against the wall and folding his arms at his chest.

"He's not. I just want him to open the door."

Trevor gave a disapproving grunt and pushed himself away from the wall. He grabbed her by the shoulders and hauled her away from the door, then faced it himself. One good, solid kick above the knob had the door swinging back on its hinges. He flourished his hands in the direction of the darkened doorway and said, "After you."

Sonia grinned as she stepped past him. "One of these days, you're gonna kick in the wrong door."

She stepped inside the dark apartment. The lights suddenly came on. Sonia froze as she felt cold, hard steel press against the side of her head. Then a voice, close and angry, came from her right, "_Don't fucking move._"

It seemed that day had come.


End file.
